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! 

World Cup memories: 1990 and 1994

Italia ’90 is widely considered to be one of the poorest World Cups, largely because of the dearth of goals. It’s true that many teams seemed happier to adopt an ultra-negative approach and ‘play for penalties’ rather than attempt to win in normal play. Sadly it’s a strategy that, despite their abysmal record in shootouts, England have also used and many teams still maintain to this day.

However, for me it was one of the more entertaining tournaments. Perhaps it was because I had an additional perspective. My job at the time was in the BBC’s Broadcasting Research department so I would analyse both official and ‘overnight’ viewing figures, pick out newsworthy stats and compile a report at the end. Like Luis Suarez, the World Cup gave me plenty to sink my teeth into and I paid particular attention to the live games shown by the Beeb, which would generate some of the highest ratings of the year. Some things don’t change.1990 was the first time I became aware of the seriously competitive nature of broadcasters with regard to their estimated audiences for sport. Don’t let anyone tell you that ratings only matter to the commercial companies; we wanted to win as much as England did.

What helped this time around was the progress to the semi-finals of England and the surprise advance of Jack Charlton’s Republic of Ireland – half of whom seemed to be English players with Irish grandmothers, or just a penchant for Guinness - to the quarters. The UEFA ban on English clubs because of incessant hooliganism had been served but the violent minority amongst England supporters was still a huge concern. Fortunately most of the headlines were made by the players on the pitch, especially when Paul Gascoigne was on the scene. And then we had the twin soundtrack of Pavarotti’s ‘Nessun Dorma’ and the unofficial anthem ‘World in Motion’ by Englandneworder, including that John Barnes rap. The feelgood factor was high.

The tournament got off to a sensational start when holders Argentina were beaten by lowly Cameroon who also had two players sent off. It’s true they couldn’t defend, and too often their tackling consisted of crude bodychecking, but their unsophisticated, devil-may-care approach was strangely endearing. So were the corner-flag dance routines of Roger Milla, the 38 year-old striker who managed to perform his hip-swivels four times during that summer. They also saw off Romania and Colombia and had been 2-1 up in their quarter-final against England before two well-taken Lineker penalties knocked them out. I felt they were extremely unfortunate to lose this rollercoaster of a match.

In their first ever World Cup, Ireland surprised everyone by making the last eight and yet, in their five matches, they scored only two goals. Having said that, Argentina reached the final and collectively managed only five (including this magical Maradona-Caniggia combo to knock out Brazil), one fewer than Toto Schillaci, who was an unexpected revelation up front for Italy. Dad and I watched Italy at their best against the Czechs in their Group B encounter, including a brilliant goal by the mercurial Roberto Baggio. “Oh, yes!” He was also one of the stars in 1994, of which more later.

Elsewhere the competition witnessed x-rated tackles and an insidious prevalence of cynical dives, with West Germany’s Jurgen Klinsmann one of the worst offenders. However, probably the most disgusting incident involved his strike partner Rudi Voller and Dutch defender Frank Rijkaard. Holland were highly fancied having won the 1988 Euros at a canter. Their world-class trio of Rijkaard, Ruud Gullit and Marc van Basten played for AC Milan, while Germany’s Andreas Brehme, Klinsmann and captain Lothar Matthaus represented city rivals Internazionale. Voller was also in Serie A with Roma. When the two countries met in Round 2, all the historic rivalries surfaced and reached an awful apex when Rijkaard spat at an angry Voller not once but twice as their altercation resulted in red cards. My diary records that ITV’s coverage of the match was, appropriately enough, followed by the hit satirical show, Spitting Image. Say no more!

The final was a miserable affair won by West Germany, the disgraceful behaviour on the pitch matched only by John Motson’s pious commentary. The 3^rd-4^th place ‘final’ between England and Italy was far more entertaining, open, fair and good-natured But for me and most Britons the highlight of the World Cup was the semi-final between the Germans and England. We had sneaked through by the odd goal here and there but suddenly there was a genuine chance of reaching a first final since ’66. Bobby Robson had moulded a very good side around the talented Gazza, Lineker, centre-back Terry Butcher, veteran ‘keeper Shilton and skipper Bryan Robson although the latter suffered his customary serious injury in the group encounter with Holland.

Frustratingly I missed the first half but was very much caught up in the tense drama of the second half, extra time and those blasted penalties. Brehme’s deflected free kick over Shilton’s head looked to have won it before the lethal Lineker equalised. After that, it was all about Gazza’s yellow card and babyish blubbing, Chris Waddle blazing over and manager Bobby Robson’s rueful smile in defeat. It had been so close.

It was also a case of ‘so far’ as indeed was the 1994 tournament. With Graham ‘Turnip’ Taylor in charge and a largely new-look side, England failed to emerge from a group including Holland and Norway, whose total dominance against us in Oslo was the decisive result. As in 1981, our boys “took one hell of a beating”.

The next World Cup was one of my least favourites. With none of the home nations competing, Ireland became honorary Brits for three heady weeks in June. It also offered up the most turgid two hours of football ever seen in a final: a nil-nil more cagey than a night at the zoo. Thus the defining image of a tournament held in the USA, a country with no idea of what football was about, was of the ponytailed one slumped in despair on the Pasadena pitch after firing his penalty miles over the bar.

That was a shame because there were more positive elements to remember. The stadia were full, the spectators enthusiastic and Mexican ‘keeper Campo’s jersey was such a kaleidoscope of colour that it hurt your eyes (“I wouldn’t wear a shirt like that”, said ex-goalie Dad, predictably).

There were also a few surprises. The USA pushed Brazil close and South Korea scored two against Germany. Ray Houghton’s speculative lob beat Italy but Ireland were as goal-shy as they had been in Italy. It was fun watching highlights of Russia’s demolition of Cameroon; Oleg Salenko scored a World Cup record five goals!

I didn’t see many live matches; Rotaract and the small matter of moving house frequently intervened. However, I was able to catch a few gems. I was ecstatic when Stoichkov and Letchkov helped Bulgaria beat the Germans in the quarter-finals but the most thrilling attacking encounter was the second round clash between Argentina and Romania, for whom Hagi and Dumitrescu were outstanding. A drug-fuelled Maradona had already been sent home in disgrace so it was left to Brazil’s twin strike-force of Romario and Bebeto to bring some Latino flair to the closing stages. Roll on, France 98….