Fantasy Footballing

I’ve already written plenty about England’s national sport becoming big business. It’s not just the billion-pound broadcasting rights and sponsorship deals or the sky-high superstar earnings, with all the commercial stresses and strains that go hand in hand. The internet brings global clips and opinions together for all to watch and read; everyone’s a pundit now. The insidious tentacles of betting companies have their suckers around the human suckers who, with a few clicks or taps on their phones, can make Ladbrokes, Paddy Power et al wealthier than ever. “Please bet responsibly”? Per-leaze! 

The weekly ritual of the Pools coupon has been supplanted by games such as Sky’s Super Six. Instead of sweating buckets at 4.40pm every Saturday hoping for our predictions of eight score draws coming true, we now get all clammy in anticipation of six correct scores and the ultimate million-pound jackpot. More realistically, it’s about accumulating more points than anyone else in our little league of friends and family over the course of a season, but it sure sharpens the competitive edge without the need to fork out on weekly stakes.

The increasingly realistic video games like the FIFA XX series sell millions around the world, too. As if we can’t get enough of football reality, we’re also embracing the virtual world. I’m too old to understand the digital malarkey – if only they’d invented it forty years ago – but Angie and I while away hours every week fretting over our Fantasy Premier League squads.

I first became hooked in 1994 when BBC2 first broadcast a live late Friday evening half-hour show, Fantasy Football League, starring comedian David Baddiel and the then little-known Frank Skinner. Dad and I both loved the irreverent humour, with skits and banter bound by a shared love of football, the closing credits accompanied by some atrocious karaoke singing by Skinner’s West Brom hero Jeff Astle.

However an even greater epiphany came one Boxing Day. Uncle David had the Daily Telegraph and, in the dull post-presents lull I happened across a page headed Telegraph Fantasy Football. I was invited to compile a team of individual Premier League players, each accorded different values according to their likelihoods of achieving goals, assists (then an unfamiliar concept!) or clean sheets, subject to a maximum team amount. I couldn’t fill my side with Shearers, Cantonas or Seamans (Seamen?) so I had to apply my knowledge of lesser-known players, making intelligent guesses about who might deliver a deluge of surprise points. I recall Chris Sutton being my first inspired selection.

In the coming several seasons, Dad and I indulged in friendly competition with the acceptably outlay of about a fiver a year. We never bought a Telegraph – we were after all committed Guardian readers – so the town library came into its own. If the Wednesday printed edition wasn’t available, the online version would require investigating. Indeed, Dad probably owed his entire tentative computer literacy to the search for the week’s list of player points.  There was no realistic chance of financial gain but it was immense fun.

That combination of intelligence-based guesswork, simultaneously daft yet deadly serious, continues through my participation in the Fantasy Premier League competition. Angie, Pete and I expend an unfeasible amount of emotional energy tinkering with transfers, substitutions and captaincy changes just for the love of it. Love, and a determination to wrench an advantage. Supporting a club was never this urgent – and I am just one of well over 5 million playing this single game.

To have a chance it helps to get to know every flaming player in the League, and perpetually asking myself questions. Who’s suspended? Who’s injured, and for how long? Who will Pep leave out when De Bruyne returns? Is it worth taking a punt on a cheap Burnley striker? Could I possibly have done this before I took early retirement? The list goes on.

I sometimes wonder whether this would have caught on when I first became ensnared by football’s inescapable net. Instead of swapping cards we’d be indulging in the less sociable pastime of how to afford Best and Osgood without breaking the bank. Football’s a sport you can’t ignore, reality or fantasy, and I look forward to many more years captivated by its spell.

The Voices of Football

The first people I associated with football were the guys on Grandstand, Match of the Day and The Big Match. It was perhaps more about the face than the voice. During the Seventies, Frank Bough was the anchorman, the one with the mic in his ear as the scores came in on a Saturday afternoon, and the bulky figure of Sam Leitch presided over the early afternoon Football Preview segment. However, David Coleman had wielded power at the Beeb for a long time, presenting Sportsnight on Wednesday evenings and commentating at all the major occasions, from the Olympics to Cup Finals. He possessed a natural, unflappable style, his voice rarely showing much emotion. He even had his own catchphrase: “One-nil”. No matter the circumstances or quality of the goal, the opener was invariably greeted with those two words.  Had he been at the mic for Man City’s injury time Premier League-clinching moment, instead of Martin Tyler’s ecstatic “Aguerooooooo” I daresay the astonishing season climax would be remembered for eternity for a flat, forlorn “3-2”.

On Sunday afternoons, we would tune to ITV for LWT’s The Big Match, presented by Brian Moore with the more opinionated Jimmy Hill adding his tuppence-worth at his side. Even when John Motson and Barry Davies took over as principal commentators on MOTD – and we would always watch the Wembley showpieces on the Beeb – I’d have to grudgingly admit that Moore was their superior. He combined the old-school voice of Coleman with knowledge not only of football but also what the football fan would be thinking and feeling.

I recall sometime in the early Nineties one lunchtime eating in Broadcasting House’s top-floor canteen – sorry, restaurant – when I observed at an adjacent table the holy trinity of Motty, Davies and Moore in conversation. Presumably they’d been involved in a Radio 4 programme but I’d love to have been close enough to eavesdrop on those three legendary voices.

For at least two decades, it felt that Motson, Davies and the equally versatile duo of Tony Gubba and Alan Weeks were permanent fixtures in the BBC commentary boxes, with Archie Macpherson’s cheery Scottish accent, warm coats and uncontrollable hair brought in for Celtic and Rangers fixtures. Motty may have become the favourite amongst ordinary fans but I have always found him too irritating, either stating the obvious or, increasingly, finding bizarre ways of doing so. Phrases along the lines of “Was that a foul?” or “Unless I’m very much mistaken that was a goalkeeping error” really irked me, and his bias during England internationals crossed the line. Of course that probably endeared him to many supporters but I prefer my commentators to play it straight, not to the gallery. He kept going until the age of 72, by which time his eccentricity had taken over. It was time to go.

One man I had heard on Channel 5, Jonathan Pearce, annoyed me even more. His sudden bursts of deafening exuberance whenever a goal was scored were such that when he moved to MOTD I was horrified. However, I learned to appreciate his commentaries and obvious affection for the sport to such an extent that since the Noughties he has been one of my favourite football voices.

There were many Saturdays when Dad tuned to BBC Radio’s live Saturday afternoon broadcasts for commentaries. Peter Jones - not the tall, suave Dragon’s Den squillionaire, I should add – was the main man for many years. Unlike his successor, Alan Green, Jones was universally popular until his untimely death in 1990 aged just 60. I also liked listening to the more distinctive voice of his contemporary, Bryon Butler.

These days I confess I struggle to identify the different commentators I hear on MOTD or Sky Sports. Like most commercial radio presenters, they seem to have been manufactured on the same assembly line somewhere in the Home Counties. It doesn’t make them bad at their job – far from it – but something unique, offbeat or any distinguishing feature would be welcome provided it wasn’t at the expense of professionalism or knowledge. I guess that’s why the sidekick has become integral to the commentary box experience. Putting aside their respective strengths and foibles, at least the likes of Mark Lawrenson, Glenn Hoddle and Alan Smith are easily recognisable.

It seems that a prerequisite for pundits and co-commentators is to have played the game at the highest level. I tend to disagree that only ex-internationals are qualified to voice sensible opinions on football. However, provided they are articulate with a neat turn of phrase and ability to bring their personal experience to bear, I have no objection. Some are really good, of course. It’s even reached the point that I forget that Lee Dixon, Danny Murphy or even Gary Lineker were once stopping, creating or scoring for the best clubs in the land.

For intelligent humour, I don’t think you can beat Jeff Stelling’s handling of Sky’s live Soccer Saturday. I never thought I’d heap praise on anything from the Murdoch stable but once I warmed to The Simpsons anything was possible. Stelling, his studio sidekicks and the location reporters now seem part of my extended family. They even include the obligatory eccentric, the one you can’t decide whether to love or hate. Chris Kamara just about sits in the former camp. His “Unbelievable, Jeff!” catchphrase is over-used but there’s always something to make you chuckle, even when the goal alerts at the foot of the screen show QPR going 2-0 down at home.

However, for outlandish whimsy I’d place Stuart Hall at the summit. I know he’s since been outed as a poisonous pervert but the former It’s a Knockout presenter was a football reporter par excellence. His summaries on BBC Radio were more Shakespearean soliloquy than post-match review, a few minutes of wondrous wordsmithery that made me want to stand and applaud instead of hang around for Six-O-Six.

However, perhaps the voice that became a greater part of my football-related TV life than any other belonged to a man you never saw until he died. I’m talking about Len Martin. For 37 years he read the classified results on Grandstand, and for me the score could not possibly be accepted as truth unless I’d heard it from Martin’s dulcet tones. For many, the greatest was James Alexander Gordon, Len’s counterpart on BBC Radio, or perhaps his successor Tim Gudgin, but for all the Moores and Motsons, Halls and Hills across the past fifty years, Len’s the boss! 

Goals, Goals, Goals

Tucking it away, slotting home, ‘back of the net’; football’s all about goals, isn’t it?

It doesn’t matter how they go in. Dodgy deflections or thirty yard thunderbolts, goalie gaffes or goalmouth scrambles, they all count.

When conjuring up my own brightest memories of goals over the years, I think they basically split into three different categories: late winners/Cup clinchers, life-affirming stunners and the ones which make me smile in recognition of their sheer impudence or originality.

The famous end-of-season last-gasp efforts by Sergio Aguero (2012) and Michael Thomas (1989) wouldn’t make a YouTube montage of Greatest Ever Goals ('pleaz like and subscribe') but for significance they can’t be beaten. Similarly, many goals which decided Cup finals at home or abroad linger long in my memory, from Charlie George’s strike for Arsenal in ’71 to Lawrie Sanchez’s flick header for Wimbledon in ’88 or Iniesta’s pounce to claim Spain’s World Cup triumph in 2010.

Whirling curling shots from distance are ten-a-penny these days. Every goal in very match played is captured for posterity, a far cry from the old Match of the Day era of two games a week. Nevertheless, Dad and I would religiously select our own 1-2-3 Goals of the Month from the meagre list, culminating in the Goal of the Season around the time of the Cup Final. Some of those early winners are ingrained in my brain, such as Mickey Walsh's strike for Blackpool in 1975, Justin Fashanu’s flick, twist and thump for Norwich five years later and, of course, Ronnie Radford’s Motson-maker in the 1971-72 FA Cup.

The onset of the Premier League, the exponential expansion of camera angles and balls aerodynamically designed to prance and pirouette to the striker’s tune brought an even greater number of mouth-watering goals to my TV screen. In the mid-Nineties, Leeds’ Tony Yeboah and Southampton’s Matt leTissier were forever scoring individual masterpieces while, for Arsenal, Thierry Henry and Dennis Bergkamp would re-define the art of finishing, later finessed by the incomparable Lionel Messi.

We all love an acrobatic volley, of course. Anyone with any experience of playing football knows how insanely difficult an overhead ‘bicycle’ kick is to pull off successfully, so when I see one perfectly executed, I have to stand and applaud. Gareth Bale even did it in the 2018 Champions League Final. However, Zlatan Ibrahimovic, never one to shrink from the toughest challenge, produced one of the very best and most ambitious for Sweden against England in 2012. But when an ‘overhead’ is delivered by a player from my own club, it’s even more special. Thank you, Trevor Sinclair!

Free-kicks have never been more important to teams. With the defensive wall still expected to line up ten yards from the ball, it is much easier these days to loft it up and over. The hard bit, of course, is to get the ball to dip under the bar. Some have avoided this dilemma by mischievously taken advantage of leaping defenders to fire home under the wall, and I won’t forget a few brilliant Brazilians’ success with bending it around the barrier. Rivelino was an early exponent but I doubt even he could have executed a banana kick as well as Roberto Carlos did in ’97. Phenomenal.

It’s not all about the boot, of course. Crosses, corners and free-kicks often seek out someone’s head to apply the final touch in the box. In my younger days, forwards would struggle to power in a header from further then the penalty spot but modern plastic balls are much lighter. One of the first goals off the bonce to stick in my mind was Uwe Seeler’s back-header against England in the 1970 World Cup. Malcolm Macdonald made the art look easy, scoring four headers against Cyprus five years later and in the 2014 World Cup Robin Van Persie’s winged flier for Holland showed that the head can be just as exciting a weapon as the foot. Occasionally a conventional-looking header becomes legendary when delivered by a master. Cristiano Ronaldo’s exemplary leap, hang and power was such a moment, breaking Welsh hearts in the 2016 Euros. How could anyone defend against that?

Solo goals often make me gasp but team moves can be more satisfying just as a delicious main course is ultimately more edifying than the instant appeal of a post-match burger and chips. In recent years, Spain and Barcelona have delivered many, of which this Iniesta-completed work of art is a perfect example. Wenger-era Arsenal were also often criticised for trying to walk the ball into the net when a more direct approach may have been more effective. However, when they had an end product, they could be beautiful.

Novelty value also makes some goals particularly memorable. One of my favourites is Ernie Hunt’s free-kick from Willie Carr’s two-footed back flick for Coventry in 1971. We certainly tried to copy that one for days on end! Mercifully it was not disallowed but it was kinda sad that the double-foot free-kick was subsequently outlawed. There’s nothing wrong with penalty-takers opting for a gentle dink instead of firing at the top corner. The ‘Panenka’ can go horribly wrong if the ‘keeper stands his ground but, when star players choose a chip in a high-pressure game, I doff my cap, as in this Zidane instance during the 2006 World Cup final.

One of the most famously audacious goals in the 1990s pretty much launched the career of one of England’s most celebrated football icons. Who can forget watching on MOTD when David Beckham lobbed Wimbledon’s Neil Sullivan from the halfway line in 1996?

Individual brilliance comes in many forms but two of my favourite goals were straight from the ‘out of nothing’ manual. George Best’s incredible acceleration and swivelled finish for Man U in ’71 was breathtaking but I will never forget watching England’s live game against Chile in ’98 when Marcelo Salas’ control and volley almost literally took my breath away. I must have screamed “What a goal!” on countless occasions but this deserved all the hyperbole. They may all count but some are definitely better than others. 

The Fields of Dreams

I’ve written a lot about players and managers but enjoyment of football also owes a considerable debt to the non-sentient mainstays of the sport: the venues at which it is played.

Fans and building, bricks and steel, turnstiles and pie stalls, they all combine to create an organic whole: the matchday experience. Anyone who’s attended a game will appreciate the unique atmosphere created within the ground. Even if your side is playing like a pile of poo, when the crowd is in full voice there’s nothing like it. When a spectator says “the place is buzzing”, it’s no exaggeration. Walls, pitch and stands, they all seem to come alive. Whether the Saints are marching in, bubbles are forever being blown or they are never walking alone, it’s a similar story across the world.

Of course, many of the grounds we see today look very different from the days when I was young. Indeed, some didn’t even exist. The fan experience has undergone changes along the way, too. The first radical change arose in the wake of English clubs’ horrendous hooligan problem which culminated in the post-Heysel UEFA ban from 1986. Terraces began to resemble prisons and Chelsea owner Ken Bates went further, threatening to electrify the fences to cage the Stamford Bridge yobbos in.

The 1989 Hillsborough disaster killed off that Thatcherite experiment but standing-only terraces were on borrowed time. With government legislation, all-seaters in the top flights became the norm in the glossy Premier League era. The hooligans were priced out, capacity was reduced and diehard fans rued the ensuing lack of atmosphere. As long as Sky TV pictures show few empty seats, nobody else seems to give a toss.

I didn’t go to many matches in the days of terracing. I watched Billericay at the old Wembley sitting down but my Exeter games were observed from the stamina-sapping Shed, hoping to find one of those quaint metal bars on which to lean. I’m not sure that Loftus Road was ever particularly atmospheric, even with fans standing at either end. At least both Exeter’s (left) and QPR’s home grounds have survived to commemorate their centenaries.

Many other clubs have abandoned their inner-city locations, their new stanchion-free stadia joining the retail industry’s retreat from the Victorian streets to new out-of-town homes. With the physical moves have come the identity changes. Farewell, Maine Road, hello the Etihad. Goodbye, Burnden Park, welcome to the Reebok/ Macron/ University of Bolton Stadium. Hwyl, Vetch Field; creoso I Liberty Stadium! There’s something reassuring about watching matches played at plain old Molineux (Wolves), Deepdale (Preston) or Ewood Park (Blackburn), steel pillars of their respective communities since the 1880s.

Having attended games at the new Wembley, St Mary’s in Southampton and the Cardiff City Stadium, I have to admit they are so superior to their dilapidated Victorian ancestors. The plastic bucket seats may be uncomfortable but it’s great to have clean toilets, plentiful bars and food stalls (sorry, ‘retail outlets’) and – especially important - unimpeded views of the pitch.

To many around the world, Wembley represents English football. The nostalgic purist in me loudly lamented the demolition of the Wembley twin towers (left) a decade ago, but I have to confess a grudging admiration for the graceful Arch. I think my Dad in his dotage also quite enjoyed a few visits to St Mary’s despite feeling sadness about the demise of Southampton’s original home at The Dell. My football-mad stepdaughter Rosie insists that Ninian Park was far preferable to Cardiff’s new stadium, despite her being in pigtails and ribbons when the Bluebirds last played there in 2009.

Rosie is hardcore when it comes to CCFC and Wales. She is a long-time season ticketholder, travels to away fixtures across the UK - and beyond and - sits for no-one in a football ground, no matter what the rules say. To her, that’s what football is about, standing in a sea of replica shirts cheering, taunting or screaming. The field of dreams, be it a mud patch in Essex or an 80,000 seater in Barcelona, is integral to the footie fan experience. Chairmen and owners, take note: the club is the ground, the ground is the club. Mess with it at your peril.

Between the Sticks

Whilst most boys’ eyes are focused on the goalscorers, mine were often straying to those endeavouring to keep the ball out. Perhaps it was because of Dad’s influence as an ex-‘keeper himself, but I always nurtured a keen appreciation of a fine save, block, punch or catch.

One of my first favourite players was Chelsea’s Peter Bonetti but in the late Sixties I also respected West Brom’s John Osborne. I may have watched him keep a clean sheet in the 1968 FA Cup Final but it was his performances on BBC’s Quiz Ball which I remember most. Like Arsenal centre-half Ian Ure, Osborne gave me an early lesson on how not all footballers are thick as the proverbial doo-doo. Millwall’s Bryan King was another whose place in my memory owes less to his appearance on the pitch and everything to his guest appearance at my junior school summer fete! I probably still have his autograph somewhere.

While much of England was fixated on the brilliance of Gordon Banks, I recall Dad being particularly impressed with Spurs and Northern Ireland ‘keeper, Pat Jennings. It wasn’t difficult to work out why. It wasn’t just about fancy saves; indeed, he seemed to make an inordinate number of stops with his feet. However, he was absolutely brilliant at taking crosses, often with one hand. And he was only six feet tall. Mind you, in those days, that was par for the course. At six foot four, Man City’s Joe Corrigan was considered a freak. In Shoot! his name was inextricably linked to the word ‘giant’.

It all seems rather tame in the twenty-first century when all ‘keepers can touch the bar without fully stretching an arm. Of course, just because the likes of Wayne Hennessey or Thibault Courtois are at least six feet six doesn’t make them a perfect ‘keeper. David de Gea is ‘only’ 6 foot 3 and current England incumbent Jordan Pickford two inches shorter still. Of course everyone is taller now, and goalies no longer need to command the air above the penalty area as they once did. That’s what the centre-backs are for. The ability to catch is becoming a lost art, just as a hefty drop-kick has given way to the need to launch an attack via an accurate pass.

For decades, English ‘keepers were supposed to be the best in the world. From Banks, Shilton and Clemence to Woods, Seaman and Robinson, their qualities were rightly lauded on the international stage. For me, the difference was their priority given to catching in preference to a flailing flap of a punch or cowardly parry back into the fray. It’s a shame, therefore that in the past twenty years, several fine careers have been ruined by a single unfortunate error, from Paul Robinson’s divot nightmare against Croatia and Rob Green’s cock-up against the USA in the 2010 World Cup to David Seaman’s misjudgement of Ronaldinho’s free-kick in the 2002 tournament. In my humble opinion, Nigel Martyn was better than most. Whether at Crystal Palace or Leeds, he was a superb shot-stopper and blocker, yet only won 23 England caps. This was thirty fewer than David ‘Calamity’ James who was notoriously error-prone. I witnessed first-hand a few mind-freaking moments in the only Wembley international I ever attended, against Switzerland in 2008.His agility was second to none, though.

However, for high-profile gaffes, Gary Sprake was notorious. Whether in a Cup final or big Wales international, he always seemed vulnerable to a ball squirming through his legs or under his body. I even remember him once throwing the ball into his own net against Liverpool. Nevertheless, he wouldn’t have been a long-time regular in one of England’s top sides if he wasn’t a decent goalie. Of course, if a striker slices a simple shot wide, it’s quickly forgotten, but when a ‘keeper makes a mistake, it can stay with him forever. Who’d be a goalie? It’s a bit like the drummer in a rock band. Derided, even ignored, but the heartbeat of a tight unit. Also with a reputation for being slightly nuts!

When it comes to eccentricity, my favourites must be John Burridge and Rene Higuita. Burridge was the archetypal journeyman footballer. Not the greatest but always in demand by clubs little and large for almost thirty years, he played League matches for twenty different clubs, including QPR where I saw him in 1980. Fans loved him most of all for his entertaining, acrobatic warm-up routines. Definitely slightly nuts! On the international stage, there have been none zanier than the very hairy Colombian, Rene Higuita. Managers must have despaired at his antics but abiding memory of him was at Wembley in 1995, executing to perfection his ‘scorpion kick’ clearance Had. he missed it, it’s possible an offside decision may have been given. However, full credit to the ref who signalled to play on, making Higuita’s crowd-pleasing ‘save’ a legitimate part of the game.

In the Eighties and Nineties, one of the finest ‘keepers around was undoubtedly Neville Southall. His contribution to Everton’s successes was recognised with a Footballer of the Year award. He, too, was considered – let’s say – somewhat idiosyncratic. Giving the appearance of a council binman hauled out of a local hostelry, squeezed into a scruffy green sweater, and placed between the Goodison Park sticks, Nev was nonetheless a superb player. Indeed he had been a refuse collector before turning pro, and was the antithesis of the celebrity footballer. From a Welshman to an Irishman, Shay Given was also a wonderful goalkeeper, notching an incredible 134 international caps and twelve seasons at Newcastle. Like most of the best, he wasn’t showy but had all the attributes of the perfect number one.

While the foreign goalie once brought the role into disrepute with their comical disdain for the penalty area basics, I have to recognise the qualities many have brought to the English game. John McEnroe aside, I’m no fan of American sports stars but Kasey Keller really caught my eye in the Nineties, in goal for Millwall and Leicester. He was the one who showed that Yanks might after all know something about football. I also loved Bolton’s Jussi Jaskelainen who’d just roll his sleeves up (literally) and make save after save.

The likes of Dino Zoff, Rinat Dasayev, Gigi Buffon and Oliver Kahn have rightly won plaudits on the international stage but in the domestic game, two imports have for me, particularly stood out.  Friedel, De Gea and Courtois have all been dominant but the great Dane, Peter Schmeichel, reigned supreme for Manchester United rewriting the ‘How to Be a Goalie’ guide with his reading of the game, and speed off his line. He was displaced as top dog by Petr Cech, the calm authority at the heart of Chelsea’s title-winning defence, with or without his distinctive headguard.

Nonetheless, the best goalkeeper I’ve ever seen must be Peter Shilton. Like Pat Jennings, he was equally brilliant in black and white and colour and, like Schmeichel, owed much of his excellence to supreme positional sense. When you possess an uncanny knack of being in the right place at the right time, Shilts didn’t need to pull off loads of memorable spectacular saves. Had it not been for Ron Greenwood’s even-handed rotation with Clemence, he would surely have racked up 150+ England caps instead of a ‘mere’ 125, to go with more than 1,000 league appearances. I only saw him live once, representing Southampton at Loftus Road, and he was as calm and capable as ever, albeit not keeping a clean sheet! For me, the Leicester legend is the greatest of them all.

Cloggers & Enforcers

I have mentioned before a stream of full-backs I have liked and respected, from Philippe Lahm to Clive Wilson, but I have tended to be antipathetic towards the big blokes in the middle. Perhaps it has something to do with the British obsession with lantern-jawed shouters, more adept at kicking opponents and hoofing it upfield than anything approaching creativity or finesse. Instead of so-called club legends such as Tony Adams, John Terry, Jack Charlton or Jamie Carragher, my preferred central defenders have been players in the image of Bobby Moore, Rio Ferdinand, Roy McFarland or Gerard Pique.

Like many people, I am not well versed in the mysterious art of defending. Therefore, my idea of a perfect defender is probably naïve and idealistic. Even Moore, Rio and the Barcelona and Spain footballer have resorted to trips, snide ankle taps and cowardly shirt tugs to thwart attacks. However, I have little time for the unapologetic cloggers, those employed as enforcers; task: stop the opposition by any means, fair or foul. Of course, they aren’t restricted to defence. Some of the dirtiest footballers in my lifetime have been midfielders. This section is dedicated to those I have least enjoyed watching, unless to cheer their every error, red card or missed sitter.

As a naïve nine year-old, I probably paid little heed to the most vicious tackles. I do recall George Best accidentally breaking Man City full-back Glyn Pardoe’s leg but usually it was Best on the receiving end, such as in this challenge by Ron ‘Chopper’ Harris, so named presumably because of his inclination to chop attackers’ legs on a whim. Soon afterwards, Jack Charlton faced FA disrepute charges for admitting jotting in a little black book names of opponents with which he swore to get even. I don’t recall that receiving much column space in Shoot! magazine!

Big Jack’s World Cup-winning colleague Nobby Stiles had been kicking lumps out of others’ limbs for years but only his Leeds team-mate Norman Hunter actually made a meal out of them. The 1972 Cup Final banner proclaiming affectionately “Norman Bites Yer Legs” has gone into folklore but Hunter was indeed well known for on-pitch physical assaults that would merit a lengthy suspension these days but then would barely receive a mild finger-wagging. In 1975 he was also involved in an hilarious bout of fisticuffs with the much smaller Francis Lee who even succeeded in knocking the leg-biter off balance. I do remember seeing that one on telly.

Most clubs employed a hard man either in, or in front of, the back four. Liverpool had Tommy Smith, Arsenal Peter Storey, and West Ham, Billy Bonds. His successor Julian Dicks was no shrinking violet either. Apparently he seemed such a nice man walking his dogs around my home town of Billericay, but at Upton Park he was a two-legged Rottweiler.

Many of us oldies ruminate nostalgically at the laissez-faire attitude of refs to vicious tackles back in the day. However, I don’t believe that today’s players are any less prone to violence than the Harrises or Hunters; it’s just that they are more likely to raise two arms and feign innocence – before getting their marching orders. ‘Chopper’ would have merely shrugged his shoulders and sauntered back to his position.

Of course, there was little danger of retrospective disciplinary action three or more decades ago. Nottingham Forest’s Kenny Burns could play up front or at the back; either way, he lived to head-butt opponents knowing there probably wouldn’t be any cameras around to capture his transgressions – apart, that is, from this cowardly assault. I bet he had got away with many more such tricks.

There was nothing subtle about Nottingham Forest and England’s Stuart Pearce, who wasn’t nicknamed ‘Psycho’ for no reason, and then there was Gazza’s legendary scrotum-grabber Vinnie Jones. A back-to-basics midfielder whose sole role at Wimbledon was to clatter rivals into submission early on so his more skilful mates could operate more freely. He was a nasty piece of work. His whole footballing career, like that of Neil ‘Razor’ Ruddock, read like a lengthy audition for his later parts in Guy Ritchie geezer gangster films.

Lee Bowyer was another Noughties international famed for his ability to self-combust. I’ll never forget laughing when, at Newcastle, he was sent off for fighting his own team-mate, Kieron Dyer! Robbie Savage was more of a pantomime villain than a genuine red card collector unlike, say Patrick Vieira, Phil Bardsley or Lee Cattermole. Then there’s Joey Barton, whom I couldn’t stand – let alone understand - until his wanderings took him to QPR in 2011. By this time he had become better known not as brawler and clumsy cigar-wielder but as inveterate gambler and eccentric Twitter user, even appearing on TV’s Question Time. However, his behaviour during the famous end-of-season Man City match in 2012 had me holding my head in despair.

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It’s not just Brits who have hogged the clogging down the years. In the early Eighties, Claudio Gentile was a notorious Italian defender who often took man-marking rather too literally and West German Uli Stielike was particularly steely. Italian centre-back Pietro Vierchowod was, in Gary Lineker’s own words, “absolutely brutal” but the ever-lovable Real Madrid and Spain nutter Sergio Ramos is just as bad as any foreign hard man I’ve ever seen. The bigger the game, the worse he acts, with several el Clasico red cards and that deliberate shoulder-dislocation of Salah in the 2018 Champions League final.

But for me, the worst of all was Roy Keane. Brought from Ireland by Brian Clough in 1990, and nabbed by Man United three years later to replace Bryan Robson, his propensity to commit crude fouls knew no bounds. His face as darkly blank as Mourinho’s, he became Fergie’s designated assassin, punching Vieira in the tunnel, stamping on Southgate on the touchline or, by his own confession, attempting to end Alf-Inge Haaland’s career with the crudest foul I’ve ever seen. Keane could even bring the entire genre of hard men into disrepute, and that's saying something!

On the Wing and a Prayer!

He’s face to face with the full-back, eyes flicking from ball to man and back again. A shimmy of the hips and he’s gone, leaving the opponent for dead. He sprints to the by-line and whips in a precise cross - destination: the meat of the centre-forward’s forehead. Bam! One-nil! It’s the target man’s name on the score sheet but every supporter knows it was the winger wot won it.

When I first followed football, almost every club had at least one winger. For example, Mike Summerbee, George Armstrong, Charlie Cooke, Willie Morgan, Ralph Coates and Len Glover were all masters of their craft, and there would always be a selection to be enjoyed each week on Match of the Day or The Big Match.

My pleasure at witnessing a winger in action is not simply triggered by the ability to produce mazy runs at speed. Superb dribblers and finishers like George Best, Ronaldinho, Cristiano Ronaldo or Eden Hazard are, of course, incredibly exciting, but I’m treasuring the delights of the winger as provider. Sadly, it’s a dying art. With the modern ball designed to swerve violently, there’s no longer any need to beat your man before whipping in that cross; all you need is a yard of space and bend it like Beckham. Arguably, the winger himself has been rendered redundant, usurped by the new breed of wing-back: the Milners, Alonsos and Trippiers of this world.

Therefore, while I am happy to proffer three cheers for the pacey charges of contemporary wide men like Theo Walcott, Riyadh Mahrez and Wilfried Zaha, this is more of a lament for the traditional numbers seven and eleven with which I grew up. They could all cut in and shoot for goal, or even be at the receiving end of a cross as well as being the giver, but here are some of my most memorable wingers.

In the early Seventies, just about all the top clubs boasted at least one speed merchant, ever willing to launch an attack by haring down the flank and doing whatever was needed to get the ball to the more central forwards. Eddie Gray’s coat-hanger shoulders and razor-sharp swivel were so vital to Leeds, and he must surely have been Man of the Match in that magnificent 1970 FA Cup Final against Chelsea. On his day, he was almost as good as Best which is praise indeed.

A contemporary, Alan Hinton, was a key figure in Derby County’s two League titles in ’72 and ’75. He was a double-figure scorer, a regular penalty taker, but could fire in fierce crosses from the left with either foot. I don’t know whether it was his blond mop or toothless smile, but he was one of my favourites from that era. Another blondie, Clive Woods of Ipswich, was also popular in our household.

Tommy Docherty’s youthful Man United side of the mid-Seventies sparkled with not one but two entertaining wingers, Steve Coppell and Gordon Hill. Aged 19 and 22, respectively, they had swept United to the 1976 Cup Final only to succumb to Southampton. They had better luck the following May against Arsenal. Coppell went on to the greater success as both player and manager but for a few years Hill was one of the most popular young stars in the country.

Graham Taylor’s Eighties Watford side also boasted twin wingers. With Nigel Callaghan on the right and John Barnes on the left, Luther Blissett could expect crosses or passes from either side. A future Liverpool and England legend, Barnes gradually became less of an out-and-out winger but at least in the 1990 Englandneworder number one hit, his rap clearly espoused the winger’s philosophy: “There's only one way to beat them; get round the back”. So there!

Scot John Robertson is perhaps one of the more under-rated left-wingers of my lifetime. Maybe it’s because his boss at Nottingham Forest once called him “a very unattractive young man” and “scruffy, unfit, …waste of time”. However, Cloughie recognised a talent when he saw it. For an unfit waste of time the stocky Robbo did OK, making 243 consecutive matches in a four-year period, in that time creating and scoring winning goals in two European Cup Finals.

In subsequent decades, I’ve been treated to cult heroes like Coventry’s Peter Ndlovu, Norwich’s Ruel Fox, Newcastle’s Nobby Solano, Arsenal’s Anders Limpar and the Man U and Everton whizz, Andrei Kanchelskis to name but a few, but for me the top wingers in my time, George Best excepted, are Ryan Giggs and Steve Heighway. Giggs’ record at Man United is of course, exceptional. But for all his club appearances, goals and curiously timed ‘groin strains’ when Wales played friendlies, what I will always remember is his ability as a youngster to cross at full speed and his deliciously whipped corners, delivered with both feet off the ground.

What appealed somewhat less is the fact he played for Ferguson’s Man U. I’m no Liverpool fan either, but Steve Heighway could have played for a Margaret Thatcher XI for all I cared. As a nine year-old, I was mesmerised by his spindly-legged runs, skipping over the raised boots of befuddled bruisers to reach the by-line and set up chance after chance for Keegan, Toshack and co. His basin cut and moustache completed the look and I cheered heartily when, from another left-flank dribble, he scored the cheeky opener against Arsenal in the 1971 Final. Perhaps perversely, he sported the number nine on his shirt but, unlike Giggs, Heighway was two-footed and could crop up on either side of the pitch. Thus for me he was the greatest pure winger I ever watched.

You didn’t have to play in the top flight to be a winger, of course. While at university, I often attended Exeter City’s home games. The Grecians usually played Peter Rogers on the right, and he epitomised the winger’s role in fans’ affections. He wasn’t actually much good but, if he actually beat a full-back just once a match, we’d erupt in raptures, forgiving him all his previous failures. That was the true value of a winger: to bring the crowd to its feet in anticipation of a weaving run and pin-point cross. Rogers was no Giggs or Heighway but he did at least try, and we loved him for it. His was the position we all coveted as boys, so we doffed our caps to those who actually filled it for a living.  

Centre forwards – Come in, number 9!

Forwards, strikers, attackers, front men, predators. They’re the footballers who hog the headlines, attract the most sensational transfer fees, appear on more bedroom posters than anyone else. Whether in the flesh or on the box I’ve marvelled at many great marksmen over the years, from Pele to Aguero, Lineker to Ibrahimovic, Best to Kane. There are many different types of striker. There are the willing channel-runners like Suarez and Vardy, the penalty-area poachers such as Muller and Dalglish, the ‘off-the-flank’ dribblers in the image of Hazard and Mahrez or the awesome all-rounders – for instance, Cristiano Ronaldo. However, in my opinion, it’s the big target man, the centre-forward who is often the more irresistible member of the team.

I’ve already loaded plaudits on to the burly shoulders of Les Ferdinand and Ron Davies but I’ve enjoyed watching many more of their ilk over the last half a century. Many were as much villains as heroes; the players I loved to hate. Unless you were whole-hearted fans of their clubs or countries, it was hard to like menacing men like Duncan (‘Disorderly’) Ferguson, Malcolm Macdonald, John Fashanu or Diego Costa. But even I had a sneaking regard for their ability to leap above centre-backs or muscle their way into the goalmouth.

Everton seem to have a particular penchant for fearless centre-forwards. Setting aside historical figures such as Dixie Dean and Tommy Lawton, I recall Joe Royle being a towering presence in the League in the late Sixties and early Seventies. Like Jeff Astle, I daresay he would have won more England caps had Alf Ramsey not preferred the wingless approach which won him the World Cup. He was replaced by Bob Latchford who became a legend not only for the Toffees but also his first club Birmingham and latterly Swansea. I think he was playing for them when, as Division One leaders in 1982, they came to Exeter for a mid-season friendly for some badly-needed practice amidst a glut of winter postponements.

Andy Gray made a big impression in under two seasons at Goodison but, for any of his clubs, the Scot was never afraid to put his head in dangerous places in an attempt to score. Graeme Sharp was a different kettle of fish, a more cultured striker yet brilliant in the air, but then came Duncan Ferguson. Let’s face it, he was a throwback to a previous era: the Stone Age. He would slot in well in today’s game, with its fixation on ‘passion’. He was all about shaking his fist and grabbing opponents by the throat, the ‘harder’ the victim, the better. He even served time in Barlinnie for a vicious head-butt while playing for Rangers. At least he seems to have been rehabilitated with a coach’s seat on the current Everton bench.

Another Scot, Joe Jordan, was a similar sort of number nine, bristling with aggression and making life hell for defences and referees alike. With his front teeth missing he looked especially menacing. Both Jordan and Ferguson suffered a lot from injuries but I suppose that goes with the territory. You dish it out, you have to take it. Just ask Andy Carroll. Since announcing himself as a teenager at Newcastle in 2008-9, his career has been a series of layoffs, be they in the treatment room or the dog-house. Like most, I always give an ironic cheer whenever he gets a yellow or red card but have to admit his reputation precedes him and whenever Carroll’s elbow goes up, his opponent will surely fall down clutching his face, regardless of any physical contact.

John Hartson was another big bruiser who was targeted by rivals desperate to stop him rattling in the goals. He, too, played for West Ham, after being offloaded by Arsenal in 1997. His lowest point must have been the appalling kick at the head of a felled Eyal Berkovic. The perverse nature of Hartson’s violence was that Berkovic was a team-mate and the incident occurred on the Hammers training ground! Unfortunately for him, it was captured on video. His best years were to be in the 2000s at Celtic but he remains a hero in his native Wales where he often appears as a pundit, equally adept in Welsh or English

Iain Dowie was not a truly big centre-forward by modern standards but in the Nineties he was a barnstorming bull for several clubs, notably Southampton and West Ham. He wasn’t prolific in the goal sense but proved his worth by creating space and knockdowns. I always thought he looked less a footballer, more a boxer after a third mandatory count, his forehead alone bringing to mind a 3-d contour map of Dartmoor. However, before becoming a pro, he completed a degree in engineering, proving how darned deceptive appearances can be. 

Bolton’s Kevin Davies was a similar type of player, but far dirtier, as evident from this clip. Start as you mean to go on, Kev, why don’t you! That boyish face was as misleading as Dowie’s, yet he was a consistent performer in the Premier League, earning him membership of England’s one-cap wonder club. Davies had all the never-say-die qualities needed to become a fan favourite. The same goes for Watford’s Troy Deeney, Wolves’ all-time top scorer Steve Bull and Peter Withe, who must have lost count of how many clubs at which he is a legend. He’s also one of the few players who can claim a First Division winner’s medal with two clubs (Forest and Villa), along with a European Cup award with the latter in 1982.

At that time, black British players were thin on the ground so it was especially encouraging to witness the adoration warming the cockles of West Brom’s Cyrille Regis. As one of the Midlanders’ ‘Three Degrees’, Cyrille’s nose for goal was uncanny, and his 1981-82 Goal of the Season featured as perfect a shot on the run as you will ever see. His contemporary Luther Blissett epitomised the old-fashioned English number nine, banging in 186 goals for Watford in all four divisions. I used to laugh at his occasionally clumsy style but, boy, was he effective!

Withe apart. none above were particularly tall; no more than six feet. However, I did have a sneaky regard for a few human lighthouses over the years. Niall Quinn was 6 foot 4 and naturally a great target for crosses. The ever-engaging Peter Crouch is three inches taller, a penalty area threat at the highest level (pun definitely intended) for two decades. More than just a twig-legged, robot-dancing heading machine, he has hit the net with a few spectacular shots, too. You gotta love him.

However, the best all-round centre-forward I have seen was Alan Shearer. As a weapon of choice, his elbow had no peer and he could take on the Roy Keanes of this world, too. However, his true worth lay in his prolific scoring record. His tally of 260 in the PL may be beaten but 422 in all competitions is an amazing tally. Only 6 feet tall he nevertheless won duels by sheer willpower and could shoot ferociously, a belligerent bulldozer for club and country.

For all the rise in swift passing, it’s still great to see centre-forwards thriving, even if their nationalities have changed. They may often seem profligate, but the top managers always find time for the likes of Romelu Lukaku and Olivier Giroud, even Christian Benteke, for the muscle they bring to an attack. As with Crouchie, they may not always start but make a very useful Plan B. A or B, long may they continue.

Fave Players

I have admired many players over the years but I have never elevated anyone to the status of sporting idol. No footballers were Blu-Tak-ed to my wallpaper, nor stalked for autographs outside a ground. That’s not to say I didn’t have favourites. As a young Chelsea fan in the early Seventies, three stood out for me.

Although his national reputation was tarnished after a couple of mistakes during England’s World Cup quarter-final defeat in Mexico, Peter Bonetti was a long-time Blues favourite, making 600 appearances.  Gordon Banks prevented him gaining more than seven caps but ‘The Cat’ consistently lived up to his nickname whenever I watched Chelsea play on the telly, including the 1970 Cup Final against Leeds. My other two Chelsea faves also made telling contributions in that match and the subsequent replay. Ian Hutchinson was, in traditional parlance, an inside left. However, he was better known for his long throw-ins, propelled with a distinctive windmill action. It was one of these aerial bombs into the goalmouth which resulted in David Webb’s Cup winner. In that brutal game, marked by wild hacks and X-rated tackles, Hutch was the only man booked, for a frustrated push, having been kicked to pieces by Hunter, Bremner et al. If ever a career was encapsulated in a couple of matches, it was Ian Hutchinson’s.

Nudging ahead of them both was Charlie Cooke. As a winger, the Scotsman had the flair which tended to excite boys like me, taking on defenders, threading clever passes and producing crosses towards Osgood’s head, as in the ’70 Final replay. Hutchinson had the sideburns but Cooke the moustache and, for me, the greatest star appeal.

His contemporary, Peter Lorimer, also appeared in those classic matches, albeit on the opposing side. Something about his driving midfield style spoke to me, and then there was his fearsome right-footed shot, said to be the most powerful in the game. All his goals seemed to be spectacular 90mph thunderbolts from outside the area, the kind of finish we kids always tried to emulate – and failed. Watch Leeds’ third in their 1971 win over Man City for an inkling of what goalies had to contend with for two decades. 

In the early years of the Seventies, I had yet to transfer my full allegiance to QPR but was well aware of the mercurial, occasional combustible talent that was Rodney Marsh. He wasn’t quite George Best but he had superb ball control, could shoot and head and was instrumental in getting us promoted from the Third to First divisions I never quite forgave him for moving to Man City in 1972 for a fee Rangers found impossible to refuse. 

Dad, on the other hand, was a lifelong Southampton supporter, with countless childhood trips to The Dell and even a few after setting up home in Essex. He always waxed lyrical about the Saints’ Welsh centre-forward Ron Davies, to the extent that I would stick fingers in my ears and hope he stopped scoring. He wasn’t exactly a mobile striker but he was one of the most prolific goal machines of the late 1960s, absolutely lethal in the air. Dad also grew to love Mick Channon and Matt le Tissier but Ron was undoubtedly his adult self’s footballing hero.

Like me, Dad also had a very high regard for Peter Shilton even before the England ‘keeper joined the Saints for five excellent years in the Eighties. However, the closest any goalie has come to rivalling Bonetti for my own affections was Jussi Jaaskaleinen. A Bolton stalwart for fifteen years, he was neither the tidiest of ‘keepers nor the smartest – marked by his gloves’n’ rolled-up sleeve look. However, he was an accomplished shot stopper and nothing seemed to faze him, even having to face two Blackburn penalties in one match. No problem; he just saved both.

My football favours aren’t limited to those in the English leagues. The Brazilian midfielder and devastating dead-ball expert, Roberto Rivelino grabbed my attention in the 1970 World Cup. Nobody, not even Peter Lorimer, could blast it or bend it like Rivelino. A decade later, Michel Platini was probably the finest player on the planet. There have been superb playmakers, able to control the pace of a game, pass short and long. There have also been ace goal-scorers. The French maestro could do all the above, for club (specially Juventus) and country. In the 1984 Euros he banged in no fewer than nine in five games. He never seemed to over-exert himself, bossing the pitch without appearing to run or tackle. In other words, my kind of player!

I could never be as cool as Paolo Maldini but I used to enjoy watching him at left-back for AC Milan and Italy back in the Nineties, moving across to central defence in his thirties. He played an incredible 902 times for the rossonegri, plus a further 126  as part of the Azzuri.  He wasn’t perfect but I regard Maldini as one of the very few who made the dark arts of defending compulsive viewing.

Another Italian who has epitomised the notion of Mister (Signor?) Cool, Calm and Collected is Andrea Pirlo. For years, his face has seemed lined and gnarled as a septuagenarian Sardinian shepherd, which merely made his midfield masterclasses even more amazing. I missed the bulk of his Inter, Milan and Juventus years but in the blue of Italy, I couldn’t ignore his ability to wrong-foot an entire opposition midfield with a blink-of-an-eye turn or a pass. His performance against England in 2012 was a one-man exhibition of playmaking.

However, probably my favourite player of the past decade has to be Andres Iniesta. I first became aware of his genius in 2010, when his goal clinched the World Cup for Spain. I haven’t seen an awful lot of him in the red and blue of Barcelona, which he represented at every age group and at senior level for fifteen years before leaving in 2018, but when I watched him play for Spain, he seemed to be indulging in a different sport altogether. Having grown up with Xavi and Messi from the Barca youth academy, I suppose it’s inevitable he developed a near-telepathic understanding with his team-mates. All those intricate passes, the clever little sprints and understated finishing make him stand out for me, even above Messi himself. In any case, the Argentine has no need of any more followers so I claim the small, balding, always modest star as my own. Even I was a wee bit emotional watching Iniesta’s very last appearances on the telly earlier this summer. His legs may have gone a bit but his footballing brain was as sharp as ever.

  

Of course, as a QPR fan, there have been a number of players in the blue and white hoops to have caught my eye. I have already mentioned Rodney Marsh but, in the intervening years, I’ve been particularly fond of Trevor Sinclair and one of our more unsung heroes from the 2010s, Jamie Mackie.  

Speaking of unsung heroes, if a future football historian should study my souvenir programmes (as if!) he or she would perhaps decipher my squiggles to discover who I had selected as man of the match. It may be surprising to them, but not me, to observe the name Clive Wilson cropping up frequently. He was a solid, unflashy left-back who provided many a precise cross and even the odd goal. When QPR were relegated in 1996, I placed the blame squarely on the loss the previous season of manager Gerry Francis and Wilson just as much as our star striker Les Ferdinand.

‘Sir Les’ must be my favourite player of the Nineties. He had all the attributes of the perfect centre-forward: a direct runner with a fearsome shot and a fantastic header of the ball. And yet he wasn’t entirely conventional; he was under six feet tall. Yet he had the rare ability of being able to sustain the ‘hang’ in the air before timing the contact and picking his spot. On average, Les scored a goal every other game for Rangers, and probably more at the home games I attended. Additionally his aerial supremacy also resulted in numerous flicked assists for Allen, Gallen or Barker. Despite his subsequent transfers, it was inevitable that Les should eventually return to Loftus Road as director of football. That role may not last forever but his legendary status is permanent, as is his position as one of my all-time personal sporting paragons.

Foreigers play abroad, too

The Champions League is back on the box, spread across umpteen channels and timeslots, but it wasn't always so.  For many years, my only opportunity to watch European clubs in action were in competitive matches against English opposition.

In the Seventies and Eighties, Football League clubs were regulars in the European Cup, UEFA Cup and Cup-Winners-Cup finals which had a fair chance to be snapped up by the BBC or ITV come May or June. Thus my younger self occasionally caught the likes of Bayern Munich, Borussia Moenchengladbach, Anderlecht, Valencia, FC Brugge, Roma or Benfica, featuring stars like Falcao, Beckenbauer, Camacho and Kempes. I probably saw – in black and white – the great Ajax team play Inter Milan in 1972 when Cruyff and co were in a purple patch.

It seems strange to think that Spain’s La Liga or the European Cup (now Champions League) wasn’t always dominated by Real Madrid and Barcelona, nor that Paris St Germain didn’t always win Ligue 1 or Juventus and Bayern Munich had, respectively, Serie A and the Bundesliga in their generously-proportioned back pockets. Real didn’t even hold that humungous hunk of silver at all between 1966 and 1998, and Barca had to wait until 1992 for their very first European Cup triumph.

In the Eighties and Nineties, Italy was the central focus of European club football. Serie A was the richest league on the continent, the prime destination for many of the most celebrated world players, including Brits such as Trevor Francis and Graeme Souness (Sampdoria), Ray Wilkins (Milan), David Platt (various), Ian Rush (Juventus) and, for three injury- and controversy-plagued seasons, Paul Gascoigne (Lazio).

It was when Gazza forsook Spurs for the cultural delights of Rome that Serie A attracted a bigger buzz amongst English football supporters and media alike. Channel 4, never a channel to mix with mainstream sports, took a gamble on broadcasting live matches on Sunday afternoons so we could see what all the fuss was about. I don’t think Dad and I cottoned on at first. However, with the new-fangled Premiership surrendering its soul to Rupert Murdoch’s fledgling Sky, to which we were seriously antipathetic, we found a new home for football after Mum’s roast dinner.

Football Italia altered my impressions of the Italian game in all sorts of ways. I’d previously had it drummed into me that it was dour and defensive, all catenaccio, designed to stifle attacking flair and generate a glut of goalless draws. I soon realised it wasn’t. Italian ‘calcio’ was about more than merely the back-line brilliance of Paolo Maldini, Alessandro Costacurta, Pietro Vierchowod and Giuseppe Bergomi; the Baggios, Francesco Totti, Attilo Lombardo, Alessandro del Piero and imports including Zinedine Zidane (Juve), Gabriel Batistuta (Fiorentina), Zvonomir Boban (Milan) and Marcelo Salas (Lazio) were amongst the forwards on display.

Another stereotype ripped up and chucked on the fire was that it’s always hot and sunny in Italy. It was partly disappointing yet also somewhat heartening to sit in our lounge and watch, say, Parma versus Sampdoria in cold, driving February rain every bit as miserable as our own. Under James Richardson’s presentation, the programme was far more cheery, and Football Italia also ventured outside the stadia for a cultural and culinary break, albeit not without some intelligent humour.

In the end, the fact that Serie A football was not much different from our own Premier League, with its own increasing number of top-notch foreign buys, killed our interest and, with other demands on my time, I stopped watching altogether. There remain, however, memories of AC Milan’s mastery under Fabio Capello in the early 1990s, the highlight being their European Cup success – shown on BBC – in 1994. Several years later I enjoyed reading Tim Parks’ book A Season with Verona which details the experience of following the frailties and fortunes of the Hellas Verona club, reviving images of those games, crowds and banners I’d once watched on Football Italia.

In the early twenty-first century, ITV’s Champions League coverage occasionally deviated from the usual dull preoccupation with Manchester United, Arsenal and Chelsea to showcase some extraordinary matches. Those Tuesday and Wednesday evening live broadcasts were by no means regular dates for me. Nevertheless, I did tune in to watch Monaco’s breathtaking destruction of a galactico-laden Real Madrid (Ronaldo, Beckham, Zidane, Figo et al) in a 2004 quarter-final to win on away goals. It was also a rare privilege to watch the French side meet the similarly unheralded Porto of Jose Mourinho in the final. I didn’t know who to support so didn’t mind when the Portuguese ran out 3-0 winners.

A year later I was on holiday in Sicily when Liverpool achieved their astonishing comeback against a Milan side which had ripped Gerrard and co so convincingly to shreds in the first half. Perversely unpatriotic as I am, I’d wanted the English team to lose. Our Italian courier told me afterwards that many of her countrymen and women were actually quite pleased Liverpool won on penalties because they hated the corrupt billionaire, far-right politician and Milan owner Silvio Berlusconi. Fair point!

In the last decade, the emphasis has shifted towards Spain as an alternative to the bloated beast that is the EPL. In particular, towards the cult of El Clasico and of Messi v Ronaldo. Even though I now live in a digital-subscribing household, the Sky and BT Sport channels featuring plentiful coverage of Spanish (or indeed French, Dutch and German) club football has been insufficient to lure me (or Angie) away from our domestic appetites of PL, soaps and thrillers.

It’s not that I don’t appreciate the genius of Lionel Messi. Quite by chance, one evening in March 2012 my channel-hopping led me to ITV as a backdrop to a tedious session of ironing. They were showing Barcelona’s Champions League fixture against Beyer Leverkusen and pretty soon my domestic god credentials were seriously bruised by the necessity to stop and watch what was unfolding. The champions were rampant. It wasn’t that the German side were atrocious; but whenever Pep Guardiola’s side attacked, they seemed to score. Prompted by Xavi, Iniesta and Fabregas, Messi scored five, finishing with such contemptuous ease I had to put the shirts aside and applaud. He couldn’t see me but I didn’t care. That’s how good he was. I had seen Messi with Argentina in the World Cup but here he was in his natural habitat, at the Nou Camp, a bird of paradise in red and blue plumage. I realised what I had been missing the past several years.

Since then, the Champions League has mainly been a battle between Real and Barca, with Atletico Madrid, Bayern, Juve and even Liverpool sneaking onto the top table when the opportunity presented itself. The 2014 final featured a Madrid derby in which Atletico shared equal billing. I fervently hoped they’d thwart Real’s push for La Decima, their much-vaunted tenth title, and it seemed my wish had been granted until Sergio Ramos powered an unstoppable injury-time header. Bale popped up on the far post to put Real ahead and who else but Ronaldo applied the coup de grace.

However impressive Pep’s latest charges, Manchester City, may appear, there’s always a certain appeal in snooping around the obscure fringe channels to spot contests in Barcelona, Breda, Bologna or Beijing, players adorned in exotic purple, green and white stripes or red and white quarters. Football is universal. Wherever the location, the grass is always green, the lines are white, fans sing, chant and wave banners and the emotions of joy, disappointment, indignation and fury are the same everywhere, regardless of local language or dialect. I’ve watched in hotel rooms around Europe, loving the ubiquitous manic Latin “Gooooooooaaaaaallllllllllll” commentary, even Thailand, and seen how TV football unites multinational audiences in many a continental bar. There’s more to the sport than the Premier League. Lots more.