The 200% Podcast 13: FOUL!
The Power Of Discretion And Why Guidelines Are… King
Steven Gerrard, The Media & Liverpool’s Structural Issues
The Twohundredpercent Podcast LIVE!
Where, Exactly, Do Queens Park Rangers Go From Here?
End Of Season Ennui
The 200% Podcast 12 – General Election Special
Saturday Night On Channel Five For The Football League
The Decline & Fall Of Leyton Orient
Rape, Disrespect & Fury: The Oyston Family & Blackpool FC
Is It Time For A New Football Club For Newcastle?
Tranmere Rovers & Cheltenham Town Stare Into The Abyss
We’ll be giving over a lot of time to the non-league game over the next few days on Twohundredpercent out of deference to Non-League Day, which is to be held this Saturday. We’ll have more on this later in the week, but first of all here’s NLD’s co-founder, Mike Bayly, on the decline of terrace wit.
As a child of the 1980s, I was cocooned from the problems of a troubled decade: debt, worry and dwindling job prospects were just things other people talked about. Football – in particular football grounds – occupied a similar rose tinted part of my social education. Although plagued by hooliganism and appalling facilities, they represented the zenith of my supporter experience. There were occasions when matches were genuinely frightening, like the violence tinged Sherpa Van Trophy clash between Hereford United and Wolverhampton Wanderers, but it did little to dampen my interest in this fascinating parallel world. If anything it merely reaffirmed it. On occasion, we even mimicked the more ‘sinister’ elements of crowd behaviour.
I still vividly recall climbing the cages at Shrewsbury Town’s Gay Meadow like a rabid baboon when the home side scored a rare goal of beauty against Peterborough United. It wasn’t an act of petulance or a response to draconian segregation methods, and I certainly didn’t fit any sociologist’s troublesome demographic. What I did feel was utter elation, the joy of being part of something special – something untold government research grants have truly failed to grasp. A catalyst for this indoctrination – and I choose that word carefully – was the idea that attending football matches could be a genuinely funny experience: camaraderie in the case is too glib a word. The biggest common denominator of the pre Taylor Report match day experience wasn’t any notion of hostility, but that of terrace humour – specifically those individuals who would hold court on the crumbling concrete steps and provide a repertoire of material rarely seen outside of the Edinburgh Fringe.
Naturally, not everything from the terraces was profound. You would be hard pushed to return from a football match in the old Division Four and claim “the man behind me says when you are tired of London you are tired of life.” More likely, the man behind you would spend the whole match shouting “you fucking bastards: why do I pay my money every week to watch you lose?” Nonetheless, terraces were synonymous with wit, best embodied by that ubiquitous figure of acid tongued rhetoric, the terrace fat bloke. I should stress that any notion of body shape is not a pejorative swipe. In fact there were probably just as many amusing emaciated people in attendance on any given match day. Rather, it is a nebulous amalgam of my fondest football memories, a vehicle for expressing a zeitgeist; being in their rotund presence, was like basking in the company of a Rothman-smoking Oscar Wilde.
The terrace fat bloke was always part of the hardcore support and certain mores had to be observed for anyone wishing to get close. Like the fabled Boys Pen of Liverpool’s Kop in the 60s, terraces across the country had a rites of passage associated with them: standing with the most vociferous men at the back of the steps was deemed the elixir of manhood and not something you could casually swagger into. For all the naivety and carelessness of youth, we weren’t stupid. Terraces – even to a child’s eye – could be hard unforgiving places, like school yards for grownups. This problem was exacerbated by my own tendency to flit between local clubs (Hereford, Shrewsbury and Kidderminster) meaning I was a relative unknown wherever I went.
My presence at games could be described as innocuous, hovering between the much maligned stoicism of the seated area and the fuck-you masculinity of the terrace. It would be easy to dismiss the association of football support and humour as merely yobbish obscenity, but this would do a disservice to the spontaneity and originality of those halcyon times. You knew the difference between someone making a tired and offensive joke about a black player, and someone coming up with a moment of comedic gold, like the heckler at Hereford United’s Edgar street who shouted in pitch perfect Tom Baker fashion “you have a woman’s throw” after an opposition goalkeeper accidentally hurled the ball out for a corner whilst trying to find one of his own men.
Shrewsbury and Kidderminster both had terrace fat blokes. I remember Shrewsbury’s particularly well – a leviathan of a man with a shock of flowing hair and moustache. He would stand there for ninety minutes delivering a masterful soliloquy, stopping only to fumble in his bomber jacket for a packet of cigarettes. With particularly risqué jokes – always accentuated by a heavy regional accent – I would exchange knowing glances with my mate, stifling a laugh for fear of being picked on like a stand-up comedian would to anyone who dare sit in the front row. Despite the gulf in age and background these people were a form of antihero to me, viewed with a mix of caution and admiration. You were never sure if they would be more inclined to boot you up the arse than take you under their wing, which only added to the skewed and incongruous respect I had for them. They were, looking back, a symbol of everything I held dear about football: cocky provincial pride; a rugged, almost maverick disregard for authority; a joy of braggadocio with complete strangers. Looking up to these people made me feel like a character in a Vernon Scannell poem.
It would be wrong to suggest that these kinds of supporters have disappeared from the game completely because they clearly haven’t. There are Jurassic Parks of terrace fat blokes all over the country, although they remain the Golden Eagles of football support, forever being moved on or culled through terrace deforestation. It might be a platitude, but the image of working class men stood on a terrace taking the piss is not one that marketing companies find particularly alluring. Far better to show a genetically blessed couple leaving their Georgian Townhouse, driving to a game in the latest Ford Focus and then taking their seats in the same manner as one arriving for a Barry Manilow concert.
The fun – real fun, not a bland corporate interpretation of the word which manifests itself in cheerleaders coming on before a game – is being sucked out of modern football. When all seater stadiums began rolling out across the country, there were many cultural side effects, not least that much of the kinship and humour that comes from large groups of assembled males was eradicated over night. Seating has made these traditions impotent; in analogous terms, it’s the difference between watching a lowbrow blue comedian in the back of a pub with your mates, or surrounded by complete strangers in the Wembley Arena watching Michael McIntyre.
More than anything, people don’t seem to laugh at football matches anymore. Certainly not in the modern all-seater wet dream, where my heroes of youth have been replaced by three fuckwits called Keith, Ian and Andy, the monstrous creation of a focus group with too much fondness for the word ‘demographic’ and not nearly enough understanding of the word ‘cunt’.
Football just seems to take itself a bit too seriously these days. The whole idea of going to the game for a bit of banter seems to be quietly eroding. Pubs are replacing the terraces as the last bastion of match day bonding and frivolity, the last garrison of sensibility before being strip searched on arrival at the ground for any concealed humour. Granted, you still get amusing chanting, but this orchestrated mirth isn’t the same thing. Football grounds are no longer pantheons of comedy, their once fabled protagonists now wedged in plastic seats surrounded by people who would barely give them the time of day. At least on the terraces you knew your place in the order of things. Now it’s a disparate sprawl of supporters instructed to stay seated and behave on pain of death. No wonder the fun has gone. After all, whoever heard of a sit-down comedian?
You can follow Mike Bayly on Twitter here, or follow Non League Day on Twitter here. Alternatively, you can follow Twohundredpercent on Twitter here.
Ian began writing Twohundredpercent in May 2006. He lives in Brighton. He has also written for, amongst others, Pitch Invasion, FC Business Magazine, The Score, When Saturday Comes, Stand Against Modern Football and The Football Supporter. Ian was the first winner of the Socrates Award For Not Being Dead Yet at the 2010 NOPA awards for football bloggers.
I was expecting some more examples really, if what you hold so dear is really that good. Sadly I suspect that the sepia-tinged memories are probably rather skewed and exaggerated.
Exactly why should the self same people be completely different standing on a crumbling terrace to sitting in plastic seats? Do you think comedians write their material standing up? No.
I’m really frustrated by the harking back to the good old days, when in reality they were nothing of the sort.
I grew up in Kidderminster and can remember the day I walked around the corner of the North stand to see the new East stand in all its glory. It made me so proud to be a Harriers fan. Well removed from the upper tiers of football and yet here we were with a fantastic stand with great views, everyone could see, tall or short, and it even covered everyone unlike the cowshed!
The same people were sat there as had been stood on the terrace, they were just sat down. Because you know what? I’ve found through the years that people actually care more about whether they watch the game side on, or from behind a goal rather than whether they are standing or sitting. Its the perspective they watch a game from that they care about, is it like on TV or do we get the best view of our team’s goals?
People are increasingly blaming the Taylor report and saying it was too harsh and too strict. I think that’s a very dangerous road to go down, the cost of attending football would have risen without the Taylor report, it would have risen as clubs scrambled to get more cash in to pay ever increasing transfer fees and player wages. The same people would have been priced out, it just made it easier to sell it if you had a seat to sit in instead of a terrace to stand on, clubs thought that at least fans would get something tangible.
If you look at the clubs still increasing prices now, it isn’t because of stadium modernisation, most of that is complete, its simply driven by wage inflation. Every time your star player is signed up for another 3 years check the higher salary and signing-on fees. You’ll be picking up the tab.
The Bob bank terrace of Ninian Park was home to the sort of banter bellowed seemingly exclusively by fat blokes. This terrace, like so many others, has been demolished and my beloved witty fat bloke seems to have gone with it. Cardiff’s new stadium seems to have silenced the witty retorts I’d come to enjoy on a Saturday afternoon and thus a small piece of what I enjoy about football has been lost.
Good piece, really enjoyed it.
Simply brilliant article. I couldn’t agree more with it. Definitely very little humour now. Just fans imploring their boards to spend more money, fuelled by the media frenzy that engulfs the game. The society of greed and selfishness we live in today also plays a large part IMHO.
Totally agree with all the above. Following Burnley in the early to mid-90s, there were some hilarious examples of chants, comments and other songs and fans of both sides giving as good as they got. (The famous Derby/Burnley fogged off FA Cup game was a highlight, with the Clarets fans chanting for the fog to come and Derby fans nearest, unable to see the goal at the other end, decided to jump up and down as if they had scored.
Nowadays it seems just enough to refer to your nearest rivals as “scum” and be done with it.
This article is spot on. The powers that be have succeeded in taking the characters out of the crowd and homogeonised the masses. Arsenals ground is a prime example. Whatever you do fans don’t scream and shout you’ll be shown the glass exit passing the club shop of course. I’m all for taking the wife and kids to football but there needs to be an uderstanding that football is a blue collar sport. It’s just that it’s being turned into a blue collar ballet. when I first took my missus to a football match the first thing she said was why is everyone quiet and sitting down. That is when I knew that my beloved football was changed.
The article is spot on. The ordinary fan is being priced out of the game & too much of what made the game great is being eroded all in the name of progress. I am fortunate that my club still has a working terrace. You simply don’t get the same atmosphere in seated stadia. You don’t get the same feel for the game & it just feels akin to watching in the pub.
It’s easy to blame the Taylor report & indeed the late Lord Justice Taylor did go too far with his post Hillsborough report. However his report also did say that it should be possible to provide seated accomodation at not much additional cost. Clubs used this as an excuse to bump the prices up overnight. Lord Justice Taylor died in 1996 & the most fundamental part of his report still goes ignored.
The game in this country is changing & not for the better. It is being sanitised too much.
To an extent I agree with Mark T here – the terrace wits are still around, although maybe not in quite such great numbers. One of my fan highlights of last year was Hartlepool away at Tranmere, and one of our regular wits shouting to our lumbering Icelandic forward, “Bjornsson! Imagine you’re chasing an elk!”
Seating makes it harder, so do the infernal drummers, but if you’re not hearing witticisms it’s more likely you’re just not sat in the right part of the ground – and as people tend to mix less and move around hardly at all in seats (unlike the terrace) you’re less likely to gravitate to where they are…..
There’s a shining example of this phenomenon at Halifax Town, a fella who attends all matches. He once shouted “Come on Super Town!” in such a way that my mate was laughing for the rest of the half. He comes up with some real nuggets. At our Burscough away game last year a group of “hard” kids started chanting “We love you Burscough, we do!” and he immediately retorted with “I’ve got an ASBO, for you!”