Slippin' and Slidin' as Sport

For most of us growing up in Southern England, snow was a rare treat and an ice rink was something the naughty kids created on the playground to wind the teachers up and, for us good kids, make getting around school a treacherous winter nightmare. And yet, for some reason, figure skating has always been very popular on the telly. While Britain had to wait until 2018 for its first snow-based Olympic medal, the ice has been a source of elusive success over the years.  

I recall John Curry’s uber-camp routine which clinched gold at Innsbruck in 1976, followed by Robin Cousins’ victory four years later but, for all Alan Weeks’ bletherings about double toe-loops and triple salchows, such displays on ice left me– er- cold. With the exception of Katerina Witt, whose looks and effortless elegance seemed so anathema to the Cold War era image of East German womanhood, I have never warmed to the sport. And is it sport anyway, with all the emphasis on ‘artistic impression’? I suppose there is a great element of skill and athleticism but even this is chucked out of the window for Ice Dancing. Of course it looks pretty, the choreography clever and bladework devilishly difficult but it’s no more sport than what the aristos fork out lavishly to applaud at Covent Garden or the Bolshoi. I detested the British infatuation with Torvill and Dean and always left the room whenever they performed that Bolero routine. 34 years since their Sarajevo top-marks triumph, just hearing the haunting music still raises a ghost I’d prefer to forget.

Unlike skiing, I have at least tried to skate. However, the Queensway rink in London has probably never hosted such a feeble attempt by an adult. It did demonstrate how something that the experts make look so simple can be so bloody impossible for a lily-livered wimp like me.

Moving swiftly on. Very swiftly. Not all skating I watched on the telly involved wearing sequins and excessive make-up – and that was just the men! In 1972 I remember being in awe of Dutch speed skater Ard Schenk whose rhythmic arm swings and stupendous thigh muscles propelled him to three gold medals. The event has since moved indoors and times have shrunk, but such races against the clock claim little airtime in this country. That’s probably because we’ve never had anyone who’s any good at it. Then, when short-track speed-skating came along in the early nineties, I could enjoy a sport which was generally thrilling and offered genuine medal potential for the Brits.

Almost every Olympics we have a world champion and yet the total haul to date is a paltry single bronze, courtesy of Nicky Gooch’s 500m sprint in 1994. From Wilf O’Reilly to Elise Christie, our short-track stars always seem to fall over when the UK public is glued to the screens. Of course, with such tight turns and travelling at such speeds on narrow blades, collisions, crashes and disqualifications are commonplace. So why is it always us, and never the Koreans or Chinese?! Christie was our golden girl at Sochi and Pyeongchang yet somehow contrived to miss out at every distance, forever bursting into tears at the pain and injustice of it all. To his credit, Nicky Gooch did finish second in the Lillehammer 1000m final, only to be disqualified, dammit! The reliance on luck in the sport is perhaps best demonstrated by Australian Stephen Bradbury becoming an Olympic champion in Salt Lake City after not once but twice avoiding carnage ahead to achieve immortality. Now why, just once, couldn’t Christie have done that?

Each Olympics I give some of my time to watching bobsleigh but, barring the very occasional Cool Runnings-style disaster, I end up disappointed. The bravery of two or four men or women careering down a ribbon of sheet ice at 80mph in an aerodynamic tin box is undeniable but with medals decided by thousandths of a second over four runs, it’s not much of a spectator sport. 

Sliding on a tea tray on your back (Luge) looks even dafter but for apparent insanity, nothing can beat flipping over onto your front and hurtling on the tray head first. Perhaps that’s why British women have enjoyed extraordinary success on the Skeleton in recent years. Shelly Rudman, shiny-eyed Amy Williams and Lizzy Yarnold (twice) have done the country proud.

There’s nothing particularly dangerous about Curling. It’s also probably the only winter sport at which I could conceivably have a decent stab. Be honest, it’s basically bowls on ice albeit with great granite slabs and brooms. When Rhona Martin ‘skipped’ her team to a momentous victory in 2002 even I was inspired to stay up late and cheer. While the Scots are always in contention, I confess to finding the live games – 5% action, 95% thinking - are mind-numbingly boring to watch. I still harbour a desire to try it myself. Probably with less thinking time…

One winter sports staple I definitely will not be trying is ice hockey. I’ve sampled the exuberant atmosphere of live action at the Chelmsford rink but for all the lightning pace and skill of the skaters, it’s the aggression, the violent slams against the Perspex walls and, yes, the punch-ups (men or women!) which stand out most in the memory. Even on TV the cameras can’t always keep up with the puck and slow-motion is essential to appraise any goal. The classic Olympic clash was the USA’s humbling of the Soviet Union at Lake Placid in 1980 but I also remember being absorbed by the USSR’s defeat of the Czechs in ’84 and Canada putting one over the Yanks at Vancouver. Yesss! For all the spectacle of individual events like Downhill skiing or short-track speed skating, sometimes you can’t beat the drama of a full-blooded team game. Add the ice, and watch the temperature rise!

The New Generation: Snowboarding and Freestyle

Tradition has always been important to me. Perhaps because I’m basically a creature of habit, with the broad philosophy of “If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it”. Through the twentieth-century, the Winter Olympics seemed to adopt the same world view. Since the dawn of time, the Dutch had been skating extremely fast, Finns leaping from mountains, tough-as-nails Norwegians and Russians skiing through forests, rifles on their backs, and Germans hurtling down a tortuous ice chute in a tin box. However, even I had to admit that not all of these worthy sporting activities lent themselves to substantial TV audiences and consequently investment from advertisers.

When the X-Games were introduced in the 1990s, I may not have batted an eyelid but now the long-haired stoners had a global televised showcase for their own daredevil stunts. The success of the winter version undoubtedly made the IOC pay attention and embrace modern trends to attract younger viewers. At first, snowboarding seemed to be the wealthy, dope-addled surfer dude’s winter pastime of choice, and soon proved Xtremely lucrative for the very best.

In 1998, the Nagano Olympics introduced me to the Half-Pipe, which involved guys and girls, probably high on weed, dressed in baggy snowman suits having a gentle post-puff ride punctuated by outrageous somersaults. Some of the leading exponents may have failed drugs tests but it was actually quite impressive to watch.

Other snowboarding events have since been brought in but I find it reassuring that skis haven’t yet been binned by the Xtreme generation. Add a ‘Freestyle’ prefix, chuck in the obligatory contrived acrobatics, et voila! I remember when I first saw Moguls, then a straight head-to-head ‘Duals’ race, I didn’t know whether to be amazed or laugh. The participants looked like battery-operated toys, their knees pumping frantically over a course of lumps and bumps. It’s only when you look closely, or at the slow-motion footage, that you appreciate the skill, balance and fluid hip movement that make a winning performance. The solo events against the clock (and judges’ assessment of the jump) can be worth watching, too.

During the 2018 Pyeongchang Olympics I found myself viewing something called Slopestyle Skiing. Perhaps the Beeb had opted to focus on the event because of a few Brits in medal contention, but I watched with a mixture of fascination and disbelief. Like observing local kids on skateboards or BMX, I had little interest in sliding down rails but when the athletes began performing extravagant flips, spins and grabs from the various ramps, often taking off and landing backwards, I began to appreciate just how difficult this must be. The snowboarding version was also quite exciting but even these racers often took a tumble. At least they, unlike their ski-wearing equivalents, could recover from a fall instead of collapse in an ungainly flurry of poles and blades.

2018 also delivered a thrilling piece of history when snowboarding and alpine skiing came together in the form of Ester Ledecka. The 23 year-old Czech stunned the ski world and especially herself (that post-finish expression of bewilderment is priceless) by taking the gold in Super G before repeating the success in her more familiar event of Parallel Giant Slalom on the board, thus completing an unprecedented double-discipline success.

Nevertheless, my favourite Winter Olympic innovation has to be that of genuine races between several competitors. With so many jumps leading to spectacular crashes and tight turns offering the potential for high-speed collisions, Snowboard and Ski Cross events are now my winter sports highlights. Two incidents in particular stand out.

In the 2006 Torino Games, I remember the commentators raving about the American favourite, Lindsay Jacobellis in the women’s snowboard cross final. A couple of early falls had left her leading by a vast margin. All she had to do was take it easy, stay upright, glide to the finish line and – oops! I nearly split my sides laughing. I love it when the Yanks blow it big time. Remarkably, while the Gold had gone she could still dust off the snow and take second place.

A Ski Cross men’s quarter-final at Sochi eight years later also illustrated how thrills and spills can also generate an extraordinary climax. Sometimes it’s best to hang back in third, watch the carnage unfold ahead of you, weave around the debris and claim victory. Now THAT’s winter sport!

Jump-Orfs and Clee-ah Rahnds - Show Jumping!

But my early exposure to broadcast equestrianism wasn’t restricted to racing. If anything, I probably spent more of my time immersed in the world of jump-orfs and clee-ah rinds. I’m referring to the sport of show jumping.  

In the Seventies, extensive tracts of BBC airtime were devoted to the spectacle of horse and rider hurtllng around a sandy indoor arena trying to jump over improbably high obstacles. Put that way it sounds more like a horsey version of It’s a Knockout but this was a serious business. At that time, events such as the Horse of the Year Show became a major part of the national sporting calendar. The arena may have been populated by pony club families up from the Home Counties but even a townie like me could appreciate the excitement of riding against the clock and the skill involved in tackling the course without displacing those pesky bars.

Like snooker, it was a sport perfect for television in the early days of colour. Once we joined the technological revolution ourselves in 1974, I could enjoy the tableaux of creatively designed and coloured ‘fences’ and walls, riders in scarlet coats (or dark green, if you were the Irish rider Eddie Macken, or a deep blue for the ladies), to the soundtrack of rustling bridles and the ever-so-posh commentary of Raymond Brooks-Ward (“Ohhhh, he’s gawn clee-ahhh!”).

It seems ridiculous now but some of the mostly British riders were as famous as the top footballers or golfers of the age. Apart from the aforementioned Macken, there was the urbane Welshman David Broome, gruff, tough Yorkshireman Harvey Smith, Malcolm Pyrah, Ted and Liz Edgar (Broome’s sister – showjumping could be an incestuous ‘family’) and the German brothers Paul and Alwin Schockemohle, amongst many others.

Smith was probably the best known of them all, As a Yorkshire farmer, he seemed the complete antithesis to the horsey set, a reputation enhanced – in a manner of speaking – by his V sign to the judges at Hickstead in 1971.  Back then I didn’t even know what a V sign was, let alone what it meant, but I was aware of the controversy and that it was A Bit Rude. As far as I’m aware, he never repeated the gesture in public but whenever he entered the area there was always the hope he might!

I was no fan of the supporting acts, such as trap racing or little girls on Thelwell ponies haring up and down grabbing flags. However, perhaps the most impressive competition was the puissance, the highlight of the Horse of the Year Show (HOYS). Instead of the usual multi-fence time trial format, the main objective was to clear the climactic obstacle, a giant wall. Like the pole vault bar in athletics, this would be raised after each round and I think the winner would be the combination who could jump the highest.

On occasions, the final jump-off could see the wall exceed seven feet and I would join the audience in feeling both admiration and elation on witnessing the horse clearing such a staggering height without dislodging any of the blocks. However, perhaps even more enjoyable was the ever-present danger of a major calamity. I never wished harm upon either horse or rider but I wasn’t averse to cheer a major tumble. In fact it was probably the biggest draw of show-jumping. There was nothing more entertaining than seeing a horse refuse the wall, or indeed any other fence, ejecting the immaculately-clad rider out of the saddle and into the carefully constructed barrier. The greater the carnage, the more I would laugh. Sorry, but that’s the puerile way my mind operated. It hasn’t really changed since. Slapstick humour wins every time, and if some hoity-toity toff went arse over neck into a pile of poles and artistic shrubbery, so much the better!

Looking back, I think the attraction of watching show jumping began to wane once the leading sponsors began to take their brand imagery a step – or canter – too far. At one point, most of the leading horses bore the prefix ‘Everest’. Imagine the indignity of a noble beast, bearing the perfectly honourable name of, say, Philco (David Broome’s horse) or John Whitaker’s famous grey, Milton, schooled and trained to peak skill and fitness, having not a badge, not a logo on its badge but the company’s title foisted upon it. If this was deemed so acceptable in the sport, why not apply the same practice to the riders? Harvey Everest Double Glazing Smith? Methinks that would have elicited more than just a simple two-fingered salute! Perhaps dunking a home improvement company marketing director in a water jump could be the new sport we’ve been crying out for?

As for show jumping, it inevitably went the way of most sports by galloping away from the Beeb and into the cash-rich pastures of Sky. However, they couldn’t have been easy bedfellows. Not many White Van Men are avid followers of scarlet-jacketed farmers or marquises on horseback so even the HOYS has been consigned to the broadcasting backwaters of the sport’s very own TV channel, presumably beamed only to a handful of wealthy subscribers in Surrey, Gloucestershire and the Wolds. I doubt they’d share my predilection for inelegant tumbles but such features were indubitably part of my childhood.

Jumping off Mountains

If I thought downhill skiers were nuts, then ski jumpers surely swing the derangement dlal to eleven. While there’s not a lot of call for skis in Essex or Cardiff, I appreciate that they are as essential to alpine communities as trainers or a Ford Focus are in these parts. But launching yourself more than a hundred metres off a mountain without parachute or safety net….?

The first time I recall marvelling at ski jumping was during the 1972 Winter Olympics in Sapporo. It also introduced me to the then-implausible concept of Japanese being good at sport. Indeed, they completed an incredible clean sweep of medals on the ‘small’ (70 metre) hill, all viewed in miserable monochrome. I was also inspired to wonder whether the ‘big’ hill winner, a Pole called Fortuna, was genuinely as lucky as his name suggested.

Four years later in Innsbruck, it was an Austrian, Karl Schnabl, who grabbed gold in the 90-metre event but it was the spectacular setting of the Berg Isel venue which captured my imagination.

The camera perched precariously atop the structure showed the jumpers appearing to fly inexorably towards the cemetery of the city’s Wilten Basilika. They didn’t of course; it was just a trick of perspective. Just six months later, we got to visit the Tirolean capital as part of a superb coach tour through Europe. Mum and Catherine dutifully posed by the landing area (below). 

Fast forward six more years to another family holiday, and this intrepid walker traipsed through trees around Seefeld to locate the venue of the 1976 70-metre hill. Gazing alone on a warm August day from the unprepossessing metal tower down to what was then an unphotogenic dirt-and-grass landing area seemed something of an anti-climax. However, at an angle of almost 40 degrees (it looks more!) it was steep enough to remind me what a perilous profession ski jumping must be.

Watching a live event is actually quite boring, with lots of dead time between jumps especially with the coaches delaying their charges’ slide down the ramp until wind speed drops to an acceptable level. Dozens take part, with two runs, so it can last hours. Condense it into an hour’s highlights package and it becomes a gripping sporting spectacle. I find myself on the edge of my seat, almost assuming the squat pose, arms thrust behind me, of the jumper on the in-run. Then, whoosh! They launch themselves into the air, quickly finding an optimum shape of body and skis to enable both maximum length of jump and marks for style. That’s when I can’t help holding my breath until the snow appears to rise to meet the skis. Finally comes the so-called Telemark landing - knees bent, one foot ahead of the other– and with luck an uphill deceleration with arms raised in triumph while the crowd goes wild.

In the Seventies, the flight technique involved keeping our skis parallel. Then, in the Eighties, someone had the bright idea of holding them in a ‘V’ formation. With the body angled between the skis, the resulting increase in aerodynamic lift was proved to boost jump lengths by about 10%. Just like the ski material’s transition from wood to metal/fibre, it was a game changer. Pretty soon, the 70-metre hill was cast aside. That’s for wimps. In the age of ‘Bigger is Better’, the 90m hill was downgraded to ‘small’ while the ‘large’ hill was extended to 120 metres, encouraging jaw-dropping distances of 130+ metres. There’s also a longstanding Sky Flying event for the true daredevils, but I’ve never seen it on TV.

It’s not all about the Olympics, of course. Whilst most of my non-ski-related winter sports exposure was restricted to a few weeks every four years, I discovered at some point in my youth that BBC2 would devote an hour or so on four days around each New Year to the Four Hills competition. While there are many others held across the winter, the jumps at Oberstdorf, Garmisch, Innsbruck and Bischofshofen together comprise the quartet every jumper wants to win. For me, the New Year’s Day post-roast afternoon provided the ideal opportunity to set aside my new diary, forget about resolutions and wallow in the spectacle broadcast from the German resort of Garmisch. OK, so there were no solemn anthem ceremonies, but the bobble-hatted fans in the arena gave it a hearty atmosphere. For me, perhaps it was more a seasonal tradition – like World’s Strongest Man or the Royal Institution Christmas Lectures - than a genuine personal sporting highlight. However, it did mean I didn’t have to wait four years for another tasty helping.

I can’t say I ever claimed any participants as favourites. A few names became familiar, like Strobl, Innauer and East Germany’s Jens Weissflog. However, I consider the 1984, 1988 and 1992 Olympics to be the joint highlights of my ski jumping viewing career, bringing two new whopping winter sports superstars to my attention. I don’t recall whether I watched any of the Four Hills in 1984 but a few weeks later the name of Matti Nykaenen became impossible to forget. In front of 90,000 Sarajevo spectators, the Finn smashed the hill record to win gold by a mile. Torvill and Dean? Bo-ring. This was proper sport!

Ask most Brits to name any ski jumper, and I’m willing to bet the only man to achieve a mention is Britain’s heroic failure, Eddie ‘The Eagle’ Edwards. At the Calgary Olympics he infamously came last. By half a mountain’s length. The true hero was that man Nykaenen who, amidst the bonkers ballyhoo over Edwards, became champion on both hills and in the Team event.

Matti’s blond, boyish looks made him a marketer’s dream, especially in the open professional world. His successor as Olympic Big Hill ski jump king, Toni Nieminen, had an even more cherubic boyish face beneath the helmet. There was a good reason for this; at Albertville he was only sixteen. SIXTEEN! I was enthralled watching such a youngster seemingly suspended on concealed wires, transported by an out-of-shot helicopter. The flying ‘V’ formation resembled an inverted Concorde on a voyage through French airspace. And nobody cared that he wore pink….

Strangely he never came close to replicating his form that year, and his career stuttered to a halt aged just 27. It’s not always a young man’s sport.  Japan’s Noriaki Kasai’s Olympic crusade also began in ’92 but he proceeded to compete in eight Games, including a very popular second place at Sochi in 2014, aged 41. Wow!

I fear that ski jumping is struggling to compete for the sponsor’s Euro since Freestyle skiing became standard fare in the Games. Ski jumpers don’t do acrobatics, do they? Yet there’s a satisfying simplicity to the traditional sport: men (and women) appear to defy gravity with style and grace. While exponents such as Kamil Stoch and – er – Andreas Wank - can produce great drama, there must surely be a future.

BBC Sports Persnality of the Year

As a youngster, one of my highlights of the televisual calendar was the BBC’s Sports Review of the Year.  I may have grown out of the Christmas Day Top of the Pops  and the FA Cup Final has definitely lost its lustre but the annual look back at the year’s sporting achievements, near-misses and amusing sideshows still holds sway in my affections.

It’s been broadcast – live! - since 1954, well before I arrived on the planet, surviving generations of sporting trends, technical innovation and presenters’ facial hairstyles from Peter Dimmock’s military ‘tache to Gary Lineker’s hipster beard. The climax of the show has always been the presentation of the Sports Personality of the Year, now often abbreviate to SPOTY, trophy to the man or woman receiving the most public votes.  I’m not sure when I first watched the show but I definitely remember when Princess Anne won the award in 1971. Even at the tender age of ten I did query the legitimacy of her claim to the award but, to be honest, she was a European champion, and that year was not a vintage one for British sport.

I used to wonder why the main award was so called. If it really was intended to reward personalities in sport, then how on earth were Andy Murray, Nick Faldo or Nigel Mansell permitted to hold the coveted silver-plated miniature OB camera? Or indeed how did the likes of George Best, Alex Higgins or Frank Bruno not succeed?  In retrospect I presume the word ‘personality’ was used to maintain gender neutrality. Not even the BBC in the fifties, when arch-misogynist Churchill was Prime Minister, was unwilling to recognise the ‘fairer sex’ as sports stars. Indeed, during the first half of the Sixties, women actually dominated, although the primacy didn’t last.

Whether decided by names on postcards, printed forms, phone or on-the-night online votes, the winners have often been worthy of the award, from Coe to Calzaghe, Redgrave to Radcliffe. I don’t know whether any results have been ‘fixed’ – although the Beeb did intervene in 1991 to scupper the Angling Times’ bid to get that sporting megastar Bob Nudd (nah, me neither) on the podium – but the great British public have delivered a few surprises. Perhaps the greatest of them all came in 1975 when, after being called up by England to face the intimidating Aussie attack of Lillee and Thomson, cricketer David Steele saw off allcomers. While scoring no centuries and the Ashes lost, the batsman’s prematurely grey hair, schoolmasterly specs and shy-but-solid character endeared himself to the viewing public in an extraordinary way. Two years later he was largely forgotten but the name David Steele will forever be engraved on one of the trophy’s plinth shields.

In more modern times, Ryan Giggs, Tony McCoy and Mark Cavendish each left me snorting with derision between 2009 and 2011. The first two clearly benefited from a surge of sympathy and gratitude for their career accomplishments rather than any performances during the year in question. Unfair! Leave that to the new ‘Lifetime Achievement’ category!

Being a BBC institution, SPOTY is indelibly associated with sports broadcast on its own channels. That was fine in an era when almost any major sports event was shown on the Beeb but it become an issue once Sky splashed the cash and whittled the public Corporation’s contracts to an ever-decreasing rump. I’m sure Formula One and cricket would see more SPOTY success has they not been exiled to the digital commercial media. To make matters worse, even when boxer Lennox Lewis was demonstrating his world heavyweight credentials, the BBC was prevented from using actual footage of his fights. At least the ailing Mohammed Ali’s receipt of 1999’s Sports Personality of the Century prize generated the longest round of applause in the studio, and surely the most tears I’ve ever shed in a sporting cause.

Olympic years were always ones to watch although Team GB weren’t always awash with gold medallists. In 1976, 1980 and 1984, the winners were actually skaters! 2012 was probably the most competitive SPOTY competition but it was the added cache of a Tour De France triumph which took Bradley Wiggins to the top of a mightily impressive list of nominees, and well deserved, too. On the other hand, I have felt sorry for athletes such as Sally Gunnell and Jessica Ennis, both serial top-three finishers without ever winning.

Representatives of lesser-known sports also benefit from their moment in the SPOTY spotlight. Performers from the worlds of sailing, darts, triathlon, speedway and rallying have all been in the top three but so far have never had to make that awkward victor’s speech.

The Overseas awards have been determined by juries, who I also reckon to have been broadly in tune with my own opinions. The only disappointment to me has been the overlooking of cricketers in recent times. Federer and Bolt are amazing sportsmen but could 2018 be Virat Kohli’s year?

As the show has gained in gravitas, adding live music and X-Factor-style production values, the number of awards has also increased. Accolades for Unsung Hero, Lifetime Achievement and achievement in face of adversity all merit a place but for me it’s always been about reliving the best bits of sport from the preceding eleven months. The roll-call of dead sporting stars gets me in the gut every time but it’s the goosebump material – be it football, golf, athletics, rowing, cycling, swimming or whatever - which is my prime reason for tuning in.

The studio audience used to play a substantial role, too. With the room containing more blazers and ties I’d ever seen outside my school assembly, eyes nervously scanning monitors to see if they were on camera, it became a game to guess which would be interviewed by Frank Bough, Steve Rider, Sue Barker or Des Lynam. One certainty was that Frank Bruno would be granted a few minutes in the limelight, probably with Harry Carpenter holding the mic. For more than a decade, Big Frank became the go-to comedy ‘turn. The comedy moments have often seemed rather forced and over-rehearsed, but James Corden’s 2009 routine in the guise of ‘Smithy’ was a true gem. If that ego-deflating exercise was hilarious then each of Andy Murray’s acceptance speeches must be the most teeth-grindingly boring.

I also loved the annual set-piece in the studio, be it our Olympic oarsman on rowing machines, drivers revving the engines of their F1 cars or, even more memorably, Red Rum twitching his ears in 1977. But I can’t imagine all those blokes in blazers from the Seventies joining in so enthusiastically with ‘the Poznan’ as the X-Cel crowd did for Manchester City in 2012!

Will I be watching at the weekend? I certainly hope so. SPOTY is far more than just the hors d’oeuvres for The Apprentice Final. It’s a classic programme in its own right. While the Beeb still has the rights to feature the best clips and attract the biggest names to each venue, I will always devote a few hours on a December Sunday evening to a wilful wallow in the warm waters of sporting nostalgia. Know wha’ I mean, ‘Arry!

Stars of the Slopes

More than four decades of watching skiing introduced me to many alternative sporting superstars. In their homelands, some became national heroes and heroines but in my living room their periods of fame tended to be compressed into a few brief months either side of Christmas.

The catalyst for my own fascination with performers on the piste was undoubtedly Franz Klammer. I vividly recall watching the Winter Olympics in 1976 when the 22 year-old Austrian, the red-hot home favourite, careered down the Patscherkofel mountain to win in 1 minute 45.73 seconds, a precise time burnt indelibly into my brain. The Kitzbuhel downhill prize also virtually became his personal property during a late Seventies purple patch, which incredibly included an unbeaten run of ten races.

By the time Ski Sunday became a regular fixture in my winter TV schedule, usually viewed at teatime from my chair through the open kitchen door, there were other names which became very familiar. Another Austrian, Anne-Marie Moser-Proll, was always there or thereabouts in the women’s downhill, along with Liechtenstein’s Hanni Wenzel., whose brother Andreas was also a leading slalomer. The big Swiss, Peter Mueller was worth watching hurtling down the slopes, while Austrians Peter Wirnsberger and the engaging and memorably monikered Harti Weirather – who often donned a natty cap for post-race interviews – were frequent Downhill winners. American twins Phil and Steve Mahre were also experts in the technical disciplines, but both were restricted in the roll of honour by the supreme slalom and giant slalom specialist Ingemar Stenmark.

Almost every time the Men’s Slalom was featured on the programme, the unflappable Swede seemed to win. Even if behind on the first run, I kinda knew he’d surge back to take first place after the second. Compatriot and contemporary, Bjorn Borg, may have been a household name around the world but in Sweden Stenmark commanded equal status, so dominant was he on the slopes. He accumulated a record 86 World Cup race victories and seven consecutive World Cup slalom titles. Unsurprisingly he embraced professionalism rather too early for the then amateur IOC, and was banned from the ’84 Games but legendary status was assured. 

Before the days of the flamboyant American Bode Miller, neighbouring Canada boasted its own unorthodox downhillers. Ken Read's and Steve Podborski’s hell-for-leather approach earned them, with team-mates, the title Crazy Canooks. They were either on the podium or crashing out in a flurry of skis and snow, so required viewing in the blue riband event.

By the Eighties, Ski Sunday was most definitely habitual viewing for Dad and me. For the women, the elegant Maria Walliser and compact slalomer Vreni Schneider stood out while on the men’s scene, usually preferred by Ski Sunday, the reddish-haired Pirmin Zurbriggen led a Swiss revival. Starting out as a Slalom/GS racer, he became a superb speedster before retiring at his peak in 1990 to start a family. I loved watching him and his compatriots in their eye-catching red and gold suits, one of my favourite colour combos!

The aforementioned stars were not exactly wacky characters so it took the entertaining entrance of Italy’s Alberto Tomba at the Calgary Olympics in 1988 for skiing once again to claim a hero capable of transcending the sport in such a crowded market. ‘Tomba la Bomba’ seemed to win by sheer strength and willpower. A bit of a playboy, he never quite hit the heights of Stenmark but undoubtedly lit up the slopes for a decade or so. Another man with a unique branding was the ‘Herminator’, Hermann Maier. He epitomised the fearless indestructability of the alpine skier, supreme at GS, Super G and Downhill and still winning races at the age of 36. Commentators loved him, and the affection also transmitted itself to me. With Stenmark, Meier was the closest to a winter sports favourite I ever had.

Sometimes it’s not the specialists who capture my respect. All-rounders like Zurbriggen and Marc Girardelli (who, after a dispute with Austrian coaches, represented the distinctly un-alpine Luxembourg) also merited appreciation but the Norwegian Kjell-Andre Aamodt took multi-event success to another level. Between 1992 and 2003 he amassed a record twenty Olympic and world championship medals, proving you didn’t have to be a central European, or Stenmark, to triumph on the piste.

In the new millennium, my Ski Sunday viewing became much more erratic so the leading skiers became strangers to me. I honestly couldn’t distinguish Benny Raich from Marcel Hirscher, although I do know they have both excelled at Slalom/GS in recent years. I particularly recall watching Raich during the 2006 Olympics, coming back from 5^th to snatch gold by a mile.

The rosy-cheeked Swede Anja Paerson had me cheering in the Turin slalom and I remember the accolades piled upon Croatian Janica Kostelic when she claimed the unique feat of three golds and a silver at the 2002 Olympics, insodoing pipping Paerson in the shorter disciplines. Her brother Ivica was no slouch either.

These days skiing seems to make the headlines only in connection with looks rather than skill. It’s a sad indictment of ongoing sexism in sport that Lindsay Vonn, possibly the greatest woman skier of all time, is better known for her swimwear modelling and relationship with Tiger Woods than her phenomenal achievements. Britain’s similarly photogenic blonde Chemmy Alcott never medalled but is probably more familiar than any other homegrown winter sports star since Eddie Edwards!

Whether they are winners or serial also-rans, anyone who puts on those narrow strips of steel, fibre and moulded plastic deserve my respect. I may have favoured some over others but all alpine racers have common qualities: thighs of iron, knees of steel, cool as a cucumber and mad as hatters!

Crashes and Cowbells - the Joy of Ski Sunday

It probably comes as no surprise to learn that I have never skied in my life. Whenever the opportunity arose I always found an excuse to chicken out. Staying a week amidst that stunning mountain scenery is utterly alluring, but I simply never fancied spending it in an alpine hospital, limbs elevated in traction. Or being embarrassingly unable to stand upright on the nursery slope after five days’ lessons.

The only occasion I got up, close and personal to a genuine snow-covered run was on an August summer holiday to Austria in 1982. Our guide explained that the Tiefenbachjoch was hosting amongst others the USA team on their summer training. Interesting, but still I wasn’t tempted. No, my sole source of winter sports entertainment was the BBC’s weekly slice of Ski Sunday.

Coverage of the 1972 and 1976 Winter Olympics had whetted the public’s attitude so that in 1978 the Beeb launched what was to become a great sporting institution, albeit tucked away off piste on BBC2 at Sunday teatime, its precise schedule changing week to week. I became hooked on Ski Sunday for well over a decade and even now I occasionally discover it and slip back in like a pair of furry slippers.

Graham Bell and Ed Leigh have dragged the venerable show kicking and screaming into the twenty-first century with their enthusiasm and much-appreciated competitive experience of alpine skiing and snowboarding. The ‘magazine’ element is OK but I particularly like Bell’s handheld video skier’s perspective of the actual downhill courses. However, I find their commentaries irritatingly over-excitable, as if delivered from a chalet bar after several  glasses of  Gluhwein. That’s when I hanker for the sober tones and chunky-framed specs of David Vine, to a background soundtrack of ‘Whoop, whoop!”s from rosy-cheeked Middle-Europeans and lower-register “chungle-chungle” of giant Swiss cow bells. Then, of course, there is the orchestral theme tune “Pop Looks Bach”, irrevocably associated with the sport.

It wasn’t only the uplifting images of mountain peaks beneath (often) cobalt skies which brightened so many dreary Essex evenings. The ski competitions were a rare opportunity to applaud participants from nations such as Austria, Switzerland, Norway, Slovenia, even Lichtenstein, especially if they beat the Americans. It was also heartening on occasions to cheer on a homegrown skier, usually endeavouring not so much to reach the podium but to avoid coming a cropper somewhere on the slopes. Brothers Martin and Graham Bell were usually on show in the Eighties, albeit featured only as an afterthought as they trundled home in 36^th place. One week, they both lost skis within seconds of leaving the start gate. Oops! When in December 1981 Konrad Bartelski came from nowhere to achieve second place at Val Gardena, it generated national celebrations.

Watching Ski Sunday was a feast for the senses. It wasn’t just the riot of colour, provided by the fluttering flags, fur-lined anoraks, advertising boards and the racers’ garish skintight costumes - I particularly loved the Swiss red-and-gold ensemble in, I think the late Eighties. While the in-race coverage gave little impression of the gradients, every now and again you’d glimpse a camera angle showing just how frighteningly steep some of those piste sections are. Gulp! Then there was the hiss and swish of the turns, the metallic slap-slap-slap of skis trying to maintain purchase skittering on shiny ice, and those cowbells again.

So far, so exciting. But the problem with traditional ski racing is that it’s all against the clock. Two-mile, two-minute downhill races are decided by hundredths of a second so, unless someone makes an obvious clanger, the TV spectator and commentator alike are heavily dependent on the electronic clock ticking away to gauge relative speed. I would sit, eyes glued to the rapidly moving numbers anticipating the all-important split times. Would they be red or, if taking the lead, green? Without such technical details, I would have to rely for entertainment on those crazy crashes. As with showjumping, a dramatic acrobatic clanger was TV gold, but I always wanted to see them get up afterwards. I’m not a total sadist!

From watching the Winter Olympics, I developed a preference for the Giant Slalom discipline. There was something soothing about the rhythmic swaying of the racer sashaying between the red and blue ‘gates’. The Super G, introduced in 1985 to give the speed merchants a better chance of success in the Overall classification, was also worth watching, which brings me to another problem with Ski Sunday. With its focus on weekend events, it normally only showed the Men’s Downhill and whatever Slalom was taking place. The GS and Super G were completely ignored.

But I’m nit-picking. Whilst the two-legged Slalom races were often absorbing, with a constant prospect of even the stars falling over or missing a gate, the blue riband event was always the Downhill. The highlights took place, weather permitting, on successive Sundays in January. The first was, and still is, at picture-postcard Wengen, where the 2¾-mile Lauberhorn course boasts dramatic drops, thrilling jumps, a railway bridge and a treacherous, knee-wrenching S-bend near the finish.

This was followed by the grand-daddy of them all, the hair-raising Hahnenkamm in the Austrian Tirol. It’s the one everyone wants to win, but two minutes on the notorious streif often led to a few heart-stopping spills as well as thrills. Here’s how to conquer Kitzbuhel in style.

Since I started watching skiing back in the late Seventies, there have been notable changes. Climate change has reduced the likelihood of natural snow falling, so courses are increasingly covered in the artificial variety, and floodlit slalom competitions are becoming de rigeur. Slalom technique has been transformed so that it’s not so much a case of weaving around the poles as pushing them out of the way. Consequently, racers now have to be swaddled in helmets and pole-swiping mittens. They’ve even introduced dual slalom now. For the speed events, I’m not convinced by the apparently camera-friendly blue lines which indicate the piste boundary and don’t get me started on the advertising logos which adorn every square centimetre of skisuits.

I don’t know whether I’ll be watching Ski Sunday this winter but it’s comforting to know there’s always a channel waiting to lure me into that bewitching sunny wonderland of snowy peaks, Atomic, Head, Rossignol and cacophonous cowbells.

F1 - Favourite Drivers

Anyone with a merest smidgeon of sporting knowledge knew the biggest names in Grand Prix. Of course it helped that Britain, then as now, boasted some of the best. Graham Hill and Jackie Stewart were the latest in a long line of oily-faced gents such as Clark, Moss and Surtees flying the Union Flag on circuits around the globe and were always in the headlines.

The fiercely proud Ferrari tifosi may disagree but the UK has long been closely associated with the UK. Many of the top teams, from McLaren to Williams, Lotus to Red Bull, have been based here, and so we have done pretty well in the driving stakes, too. The problem is, so many of them have been dull as ditchwater. OK, so it doesn’t help when the modern driver is so rarely seen in public. How can we mere mortals identify a personality if it’s so carefully concealed? Even more than the top golfers, tennis stars or footballers, they seem to inhabit a rarified bubble. Their huge earnings finance a life of superyachts, Monte Carlo mansions, Isle of Man tax havens and personal private jets and on the few occasions we do get to see them on the tour, they are mostly swaddled in sponsors’ overalls and helmets. I have to take the commentator’s word that it really is Fernando Alonso or Sebastian Vettel beneath all those logos.

The Brits have been a mixed bunch. Nigel Mansell was notorious for having such a dreary demeanour, and it has been difficult to warm to the likes of Damon Hill John Watson or current champion, the slick, sharp but vacuous Lewis Hamilton. At least David Coulthard has proved his personality pedigree in the commentary box, and Jenson Button displayed some youthful enthusiasm in his early days. The lad from Frome may have become world champion but he never quite satisfied the UK media’s craven need for a true blonde playboy driver.

Johnny Herbert had his moments but none ever lived up to James Hunt. In the Seventies he went from ‘Hunt the Shunt’ to top of the pile, while simultaneously living in an even faster lane encompassing a voracious appetite for booze and women. For all this I confess I couldn’t stand him – or at least the man sold to us through the TV and Press. I much preferred him as Murray Walker’s sidekick post-retirement, but I never forgave him for taking the 1976 title from Niki Lauda, who had been lucky to survive his mid-season crash let alone be in contention to win the championship.

For some reason, it was the relatively morose Austrian who captured my imagination. He propelled Ferrari to the title in ’75 and was miles ahead a year later when his season was sunk by that conflagration at the Nurburgring. His extraordinary recovery and single-minded determination not to succumb to his burns, helped Lauda win again in ’77 but the one I remember most fondly was his comeback success – by just half a point! – in 1984.

From the Seventies to the Nineties there was genuine competition. In the Eighties, Prost, Piquet, Mansell, Berger, Patrese and Rosberg were usually in contention but it was Ayrton Senna who stirred the senses more than any other. I’m not qualified to assess the Brazilian’s technical ability but, just by watching his car on the track, he seemed to possess the X-factor, an aura which his main rivals simply didn’t have. That’s what made his fatal crash in the San Marino GP at the peak of his powers so tough for the sport to take.

Sebastian Vettel was a breath of fresh air when he burst on the scene, but when someone is fortunate enough to be at the wheel of an invincible car, continuous success breeds boredom with the casual spectator, and – let’s face it - the Brits have never liked Germans. Michael Schumacher epitomised the xenophobic British view of the ‘arrogant Hun’. For starters, he had an unfortunate sneer-shaped mouth. But the principal reason for the antipathy was his sheer brilliance behind the wheel. His five consecutive world titles with Ferrari between 2000 and 2004 represented an unparallelled period of dominance. What appealed to me was his ability to win in adverse circumstances. His first world titles came with unfancied Benetton in the mid-Nineties then he almost single-handedly restored Ferrari’s faded fortunes, going on to a further five consecutive titles. Nobody could touch him, especially in the wet, and with Ferrari’s technical team also rediscovering their mojo, F1 was becoming a procession for Schumacher et al. Such dominance led to all sorts of rule changes but in the end, credit where credit’s due. Unlike Barbara, the mother of my ex, Jan, I’m not a globetrotting superfan, but I always admired Schumacher more than any other since Lauda. The more the UK Press hated him, the more I liked him.

Maybe his legacy was tarnished by his lucrative return to F1 with Mercedes, after a three-year ‘retirement’. He could no longer work miracles behind the wheel. Sadly, his fearlessness, skill and ultra-sharp reactions honed in karts and 200mph cars let him down in a split-second in 2013. Not on the track, but off-piste in the French Alps. For all his millions in the bank and portfolio of palatial properties (every excursion I take in Europe seems to take me past one of them), his resulting head injury has left him unable to walk or talk, probably permanently. A desperately distressing story.

Of course, F1 is a worldwide sport, funded by global corporations and broadcasting rights deals, demanding names from Russia, Asia and the USA to attract TV audiences and sponsors in those lucrative markets. Yanks, Brazilians, Aussies, Finns and Spaniards have all been in the mix but we still await the first Muscovite, Chinese or Indian winner. I’m sure it will come. But first there is a 19 year-old Formula 3 champion called Mick Schumacher to consider. While his dad languishes in a paralysed body, it would be wonderful if Schumy Junior could keep the Drivers Championship in the family. Anyone to end the Hamilton hegemony!.

NeeeeeeeEEEEEEYYYYYYAAAAOOOoooowwww!

“And there – he – goes….. “ Ah, the voice of Murray Walker conjures up memories of motor sport throughout my formative year and beyond. To be honest I have never been especially keen on watching 750cc bikes, souped-up Cortinas or the 200mph advertising boards on wheels which contest Formula One Grand Prix. However, my weekend afternoons during the Seventies were often punctuated by Murray’s excitable exclamations.

Whether on two wheels or four, helmeted heads were often seen haring around rainswept swathes of tarmac, from Brands Hatch to Donington, Thruxton to Lyddon Hill, all to the soundtrack of Mr Walker’s commentary. The occasional shunt made the races moderately interesting and at least these segments in Grandstand were more entertaining than the 2.15 from Catterick.

Even in black-and-white, the mud-spattered sport of Motorcross definitely had appeal for this young boy. Umpteen bikes actually raced against each other in close proximity, scrambling around rugged fields, generating a genuine sense of excitement. This YouTube clip brought it all back to me. Rally driving seemed to feature similar elements, but without the danger of overtaking. On the few occasions I watched on the box, it always seemed to be Finns winning everything and, while it looked a thrilling spectacle for the spectator, I never felt the inner rush to travel to some godforsaken forest and see a soggy Subaru fishtailing its way down the lanes. I was happy to leave such adventures to the true petrolheads.

Rallycross and saloon car racing had the advantage of featuring vehicles broadly recognisable from those I saw on the way to school (Vauxhall Chevettes, Ford Escorts!), while  Sports Car events had slightly more glamour but without the global cache of F1. Not enough to convert me to the Castrol-veined Clarksonesque community. As they say, every cloud…!

No, I preferred my cars smaller. Much smaller. I do remember on our 1970 summer holiday to Cornwall buying a Roger Clark Ford Capri complete with stickers, the closest I would ever get to rallying! Whilst my own ‘races’ on the living room carpet were more likely to involve the larger Corgi or Dinky models, amongst my modest collection of toy cars were a few peeling metal Matchbox Jaguars or Lesney Lotuses, either bought for me or passed down from my uncles. Welcome to the word of Formula One. 

Like most sports, the BBC tended to dominate motor sport broadcasting and, being part of a Beeb-favouring family, I probably watched F1 from a young age. I don’t recall exactly when I became aware of the sport’s epitome but I do remember discussing the well-publicised death of Jochen Rindt in 1970 with a classmate who was more into such things than I ever was; he even went to Brands Hatch with his family, a distinctly exotic activity compared with my stamp-collecting, bike-riding or back garden cricket with Dad.

My Grand Prix watching was fairly sporadic. It wasn’t essential viewing for me, not even the British or Monaco races, for all their hyper-hyped glitz and gloss. However, if there was nothing else to do or watch on a wet Sunday summer or autumn afternoon, the BBC’s coverage was a reliable friend. Let’s be honest, the best bits were:-

-        The brooding bassline and wailing guitar solo from Fleetwood Mac’s The Chain’ top-and-tailing each programme;

-        Murray Walker acclaiming a particularly nifty piece of overtaking or crash;

-        The chequered flag moment

Everything in between was rather boring. Monaco had some street scenery but no overtaking, which put the onus on speed in pre-race qualifying. Spa in Belgium had some distinctive rises and falls, Hockenheim the forests, Monza had Ferrari’s irresistible seas of scarlet banners and, more recently, the innovative floodlit Singapore brought a different look and atmosphere. However, I always found it difficult to love the rest.

Once the mad dash for the first bend, with its associated risks and potential for shunts and spins, was completed, what else is there to look forward to? Putting a stopwatch on pit stops added a touch of tension to what is basically a trip to the garage for new tyres (but without the wait and browse through an incomprehensible spare parts magazine) but even if the superbly-drilled mechanics performed their task inside six seconds, it would do nothing to boost my heart rate. Only a bumper-to-bumper contest and heart-in-mouth overtaking manoeuvres would do that.

There was nothing uplifting about a really serious accident, of course. In the Seventies, Formula One was still a dangerous business. The increased emphasis on ‘elf and safety may have produced less of a spectacle for TV audiences but it has also undoubtedly extended the lifespan of drivers and indeed those in the stands. Big stars like Rindt, Ronnie Peterson, Gilles Villeneuve and Ayrton Senna all perished for our entertainment, while others have sadly died during testing. I remember switching on to the 1994 Imola race to learn of Senna’s fatal collision with a wall. Obviously there were no highlights, no confirmation that the much-loved genius had been killed, but the downbeat tone of Walker, Brundle et al said it all and practically had me in tears. I hadn’t been watching in 1976 when the brilliant Niki Lauda was engulfed in flames at the Nurburgring but the scenes shown on the News that night were shocking. I definitely prefer my sporting heroes alive and kicking, thank you very much.

As with other sports, the migration of F1 away from BBC then terrestrial TV altogether seriously diminished my interest in motor racing. The banter between Jake Humphreys, Eddie Jordan and David Coulthard had been quite entertaining, while Suzi Perry had introduced some much-needed femininity but even Suzi couldn’t lure me into the world of tyre treads and millionaire motorhomes. The retirement of Michael Schumacher and rise of Lewis Hamilton haven’t helped either. Will there be future drivers or presenters able to lead me back into the fold? Probably not, given this household’s preference for Sunday afternoon football! However, Formula One has not been without its luminaries who have enthralled this armchair viewer.

Rugby League

Whilst I’ve never played it, or even shown any genuine close interest, a chunk of my childhood TV experience is forever bottled and labelled as Rugby League. I must confess my instant thought upon hearing or reading those two words is the voice of the old BBC commentator Eddie Waring. On a bad day, the voice morphs into that of Seventies impressionist Mike Yarwood, the image completed by the ever-present trilby, pseudo-Yorkshire sing-song delivery and inevitable catchphrase “oop and under”.  Those were the days before League was ‘Super’ and transformed by Sky into a sport played under the summer sun instead of cold rain propelled across the Pennines.

As an unashamed Southerner, League always seemed to belong to the ribbon of Roses land somewhere between the Midlands and Lake District. For me, the sport was – and still is – irrevocably associated with a generic ‘Northern’ accent. It doesn’t matter how hard the new-fangled Super League has tried to widen its revenue stream to encompass London, Paris or Perpignan, I will never be convinced of the game’s claim to be genuine without a stream of dropped aitches.

Winter afternoons on BBC1 were built around live League fixtures, all described by the aforementioned Mr Waring. Dad and I didn’t always watch, but the non-stop action in front of rain-battered crowds was often breathtaking. The oval ball is the same but Union couldn’t hold a candle to League when it comes to continuous action and often brutal physical contact. Some of my clearest memories of players are not of the pacy runners but the front-row forwards, the hulks of the scrum. I can’t forget the drooping moustache and inscrutable body language of Leeds’ Sid Hynes after landing another haymaker on an opponent. Worse still was ‘Big’ Jim Mills (the nickname as unimaginative as it was unnecessary), who always seemed to be committing random acts of extreme violence in his Widnes shirt. He apparently did the same wearing the red of Wales, too.

When I first started watching, it was near impossible working out which side was which. Played in black and white, all 26 players seemed to be swathed in the dark grey colour of mud. That’s where Eddie Waring came into his own. I’m sure I was watching when, after Wakefield Trinity’s Don Fox sliced a simple kick which would have won the 1968 Challenge Cup Final, the chummy commentator summed up what everyone outside Leeds was feeling with the immortal words; “Eee, the poor lad!” Waring also featured in the BBC’s summer game show It’s a Knockout but for years he was Mr Rugby League, an epithet which could also be applied to his successor Ray French. Eddie may have been eased out because of his jokey colloquialisms but French was every bit as much the comedy Northerner.

Even the top players’ names resonated with Northernness. I recall Bev Risman and Les Dyll playing for Leeds, plus Joe Lydon at Wigan, Alex Murphy for St Helens and Castleford’s Alan Hardisty. Could they ever have participated in any other sport? I don’t have particular favourites although I have a soft spot for Widnes’ and Wigan’s charismatic Eighties scrum-half Andy Gregory. I suppose I liked him because, at five feet five, he was dwarfed by everybody else on the pitch yet was as resolutely tough as a Central Park stanchion.

Life was getting in the way of Grandstand viewing by the time titanic try scorers like Ellery Hanley, Anthony Sullivan and Martin ‘Chariots’ Offiah entered the scene although I did see them on the telly a few times. The same goes for Jason Robinson, whose unique jerky running style for Wigan in the Nineties was as entertaining as his actual try-scoring exploits.

By this time, Sky had its hooks into the sport. Union had remained amateur for a century or so but was beginning to lose its best players to professional League. Wales in particular saw stars such as Jonathan Davies, Robert Ackermann and Scott Gibbs switch codes. Union bowed to the inevitable, becoming a pro sport in 1995, after which the flow started to reverse, Robinson being a prime example. The Five Nations (as was) internationals had always fascinated me more than League so, with British Rugby Union becoming more of a running game in an attempt to keep up with the All Blacks and Aussies, the distinction between the two codes began to blur and I more or less abandoned any pretence at following League.

In my head, the game is forever associated not with Bulls, Wolves or Rhinos but Northern, Trinity or Rovers. Leeds, St Helens and Wigan are just as dominant as they were five decades ago but for me it’s the likes of Dewsbury, Hunslet or Leigh which also echo loudly across the years. It wasn’t just about the winter afternoons in grim, grey Victorian mill towns. The Wembley centrepieces of League were almost as engrossing as those of football. I recall once taking the train to Wembley for railway photos, while a Challenge Cup Final was taking place within the old stadium behind me. The atmosphere managed to permeate the white walls and reach me although I wasn’t even sure who was playing.

One game I did see on the box was a classic encounter between Wigan and Hull in 1988. Tries galore, mostly from coruscating breaks rather than mere scrappy flops across the line, showed how good Rugby League could be. Best of all were the team names: Wigan and Hull. Nine letters: simple, humble, traditional, Lancashire v Yorkshire. Rugby League in a nutshell.

FA Cup Fever

The FA Cup proper is now under way. Several League 1 and 2 clubs are already insisting they are now "concentrating on the league" having messed up at the weekend. Ah, the FA Cup. Giant killings. Wembley. The twin towers. Players dropping like flies, their calves screaming with cramp. Losers sobbing on the turf. Winners jogging a lap of honour, lid perched on one head, its base on another, and the famous silver pot passed from hand to hand. It all seems so anachronistic in the modern era of hastily-erected podia festooned with exploding tickertape and sponsors’ logos, choreographed award ceremonies and the obligatory interviews. And yet the world’s oldest football tournament endures.

In the dark hours of the early Noughties, the axe was almost visible, hovering over the premier knockout competition not only in England but the entire planet. When Manchester United withdrew in preference for the more prestigious World Team Championship in 1999, the writing seemed to be on the wall. When the walls themselves, along with the twin towers of old Wembley were destroyed to make way for the shining arch of the new, the showpiece finale was transferred to Cardiff’s Millennium Stadium for six years. A magnificent venue but it seemed to tarnish further the lustre of the trophy.

As a child, the FA Cup was a thing of wonder. Everyone wanted to win, have their day at Wembley. There was none of this nonsense of resting key players for the Europa League. Non-League amateurs had their opportunity to mix it with the big boys, bringing the stars “down to our patch” where for ninety minutes you had a chance of upsetting the odds and the local garage could have their advertising board seen by millions on Match of the Day. Sides featuring a motley crew of postmen, PE teachers and clerks would for a week or two welcome reporters and cameras into their territory for a fleeting fragment of fame. For the few who managed to sustain a decent run through the rounds, their players could write their names not only in encyclopedia footnotes but in local folklore for ever.

The first genuine shock I recall came in the 1970-71 season. As I’ve mentioned already, Leeds were the biggest guns of them all, and so provided the greatest scalp of all for plucky clubs in the lower divisions. That season, Colchester United were in the fourth tier and, after overcoming similarly impoverished opposition, found themselves in the fifth round at home to Don Revie’s team. The seeds were sown, the conditions perfect for a potential pratfall for Charlton, Giles, Clarke et al. In front of 16,000 spectators somehow shoehorned into little Layer Road, plus a BBC TV crew, the Blues won 3-2. I don’t need YouTube to relive the veteran Ray Crawford’s hook from the turf or Dave Simmons’ header over Sprake; they are goals never to be forgotten. It matters not a jot that Colchester were well beaten at Everton in the quarter-finals; legend status had been achieved.

A year later I recall watching MOTD, featuring the unfamiliar tones of a young John Motson, playing and replaying one of the competition’s greatest ever moments. Newcastle travelled to Southern League Hereford for a third round replay in February 1972 fearing the worst. Both sides missed easy chances but when Malcolm Macdonald finally found the net, the favourites had seemingly sealed their passage. However, when in the 85^th minute, Ronnie Radford crashed a thirty-yarder from a sea of mud into the Newcastle net to equalise, the thousands of kids fizzing on the touchline like bubbles in an unopened bottle of Tizer poured onto the quagmire in delight. The invasion was repeated in extra-time when Ricky George scored the winner. It was sensational stuff.

There have been many other examples of Division 3, 4 or even non-League outfits embarrassing top teams in my lifetime. Sutton’s triumph over Coventry in 1987 was outstanding but Wrexham’s humbling of star-studded Arsenal in 1992 was particularly satisfying for all but the most ardent Gooners, a nations’ revenge for that godawful away kit. What a free-kick that was by Mickey Thomas! 

More recently there have been memorable runs by the likes of Barnsley (beating Liverpool and Chelsea in 2008) and Lincoln City, who in 2017 (seems much longer ago) became the first non-League team since QPR a century earlier to reach the quarter-finals. A shame Arsenal spoiled the party by winning 5-0, the b*st*rds.

However, possibly the most gratifying FA Cup result came a few years earlier in 2015 when in a fourth round tie at Stamford Bridge, Chelsea chucked a 2-0 lead to lose 2-4 to League One Bradford City. Seeing Jose Mourinho’s face in defeat never fails to fill my heart with joy. For that alone I will always cherish the tournament. In 2018/19, could it be Billericay Town's year? I'd like to say stranger things have happened but...they haven't. Never mind, just one giant-killing act would be enough to create history; that's both the beauty and emotional power of the FA Cup.