THE WEEKENDER #4
The World Cup is upon us- some memories from various living rooms of Gateshead - Part 1.
Part 1
1966 - White Heat
My Mam often reminded me that one of the vivid memories she had of me as an infant was lying in a pram in the backyard of our terraced house in Bensham. As I gurgled, filled a nappy and slept, the sombre news came on the radio from Dallas, USA. Crackling through, a broadcaster breathlessly told the world … President Kennedy had been shot dead.
You might have thought my first steps or words would be the primary memories of my lovely Mammy … but no, the murder of a President, who shared our Irish and Catholic heritage was her enduring memory of my first months in our Geordie favela (cough) just off Coatesworth Rd. Three years later the conspiracy theories around Kennedy’s assassination swirled and the world would later witness the assassination of another progressive icon, Martin Luther King.
But in Merry Olde England all thoughts were fixed on the World Cup as the home of football played host to the world’s biggest football competition to backing tracks provided by The Beatles, The Kinks, Rolling Stones and The Who.
International football was coming to the communities that had brought it from the backstreets of industrial England to every corner of the planet. But not to Newcastle upon Tyne.
Not that the city couldn’t have had World Cup games played in its famous football ground. It was very much on the FA’s list of intended venues as it was based in the North East’s regional capital and had all the requisite capacity, enthusiastic locals and a mainline train station to bring in folks from the north and south.
But World Cup football didn’t come to Newcastle because the bulls knackers who owned Newcastle United, the McKeags et al couldn’t reach an understanding with the City Council which would have paid for improvements to SJP and a civic agreement for future use of the ground.
So World Cup football in the NE was famously played at Roker and Ayresome Parks but not SJP.
Not that would mean the region’s story in the World Cup was over. West Ham fans often claim it was their club that made England world champions (let’s ignore the Russian linesman) but it wasn’t.
Ashington won the World Cup. If Jules Rimet is still gleaming then it shines brightly on Beatrice St from where two of the Charlton lads came and did the business on a sun-kissed afternoon in beautiful red shirts at Wembley Stadium.
While Kenneth Wolstenholme uttered his immortal commentary … some people are on the pitch, they think it’s all over … it is now, I was likely sitting on a potty in Worcester St, waiting for Bill and Ben to make an appearance. Probably.
1970 - The Beautiful Team
Can you remember the first time you became aware of beer? How many of you share my experience of having a childhood sip of your Dad’s beer in the house watching epic sports events … McEwan’s Export most likely in my case as we all sat down to be captivated by the technicolour daydream beamed back from Mexico. This was a good time - at my Mam’s insistence, we had decanted from the condemned homes of central Gateshead to a brand new council house in the fresh air of an estate teeming with kids from sound working class families - all with Dads in full time jobs.
Or so it seemed and I’m not going down that road of rose-tinted nostalgia. There’d have been domestic violence, childhood neglect, marital infidelity, parental abandonment, mental health crises and all of the rest of it. Just like now - though without Botox, Betting Apps and Bongs. It all passed me by as I made new friendships with the bairns of those my folks knew from The Teams, Bensham etc.
But having green fields, woodland and a golf course to roam around, my childhood was as close to a bucolic idyl as you could get on industrial Tyneside - albeit my old man always yearned for the familiar bricks and tarmac of central Gateshead and never really settled in the sticks of a satellite housing estate - reliant on wheezing buses to get him to the clubs and pubs of the old neighbourhood.
But The Beatles were still together just about, George Best was still playing football of a sort and clubs of these isles were making an impression in continental Europe - Celtic (1967) and Man Utd (1968) had been European Cup winners but most spectacularly, Newcastle United had defied the odds to win the Inter Cities Fairs Cup (1969). There had also been one small step for man and all of that as Neil Armstrong et al had floated in a tin can to the moon.
England, under a Labour government had won the World Cup and travelled to Central America as World Champions with their Colonel Blimp manager, Alf Ramsey, already passed his sell-by date.
In truth England were a stronger side in 1970 than they were in 1966. But so was the football aristocracy of Italy, West Germany and Brazil, the latter who on their own continent, were determined to show the world ‘66 was a blip, an aberration and they’d recapture the trophy they had won in 1958 and 1962. For Pele, forced out of the ‘66 tournament by injury, this was to be his denouement, his golden goodbye.
This was the tournament of controversy … the shoplifting scandal in Bogotá which embroiled England captain, Bobby Moore and goalie Gordon Banks getting a dose of the Eartha Kitts and missing the West Germany game. Poor Peter Bonnetti, his replacement, crucified for allowing Beckenbauer’s shot to squirt underneath him. Then of course there was Northumberland‘s Bobby Charlton subbed for Durham’s Colin Bell and Ramsey’s men allowing a 2-1 lead to turn into a 3-2 defeat after extra time. Moore’s astonishing tackle and Banks’ magnificent save from the head of Pele in that game v Brazil. The embrace of Pele and Moore at full time. Was there ever a more iconic set of images for international football?
My memory is sitting on the sofa next to my old man and hearing him waxing about the Brazilians in the final … the best football of all time son … names that are scorched into the memory … Tostao, Rivelino, Alberto, Jarizinho, Pele … no schoolyard game was complete without the boyish commentary to accompany a Wembley Trophy thumped goal-ward.
Those beautiful colours of the Brazilian and Italian shirts in the final, the languid, elegant style of Pele’s team. The hum of the crowd in the Azteca Stadium and the exquisite commentary of David Coleman.
There has never been a better a World Cup and there has never been better winners.
‘Brazil are the greatest son’.
1974 - Uber Alles
West Germany hosted the ‘74 World Cup only 29 years after the end of WW2. As millions watched on TV screens around the world like our family, many more would have thought of the conflict which took loved ones from them. Doubtless my now departed Uncle Jack who fought across Europe allowed himself to think of his brother Willie who’d been killed in a submarine in the fjords in 1944 at the age of 22. His framed photograph on my grandmother’s mantle piece remains a scorched image from childhood.
Not that there would be a meeting in the finals between West Germany and England. Ramsey’s men, Champions in ‘66 and quarter finalists in ‘70 had confounded expectations by failing to qualify. Although famously derided as a clown by Brian Clough, the Poland goalie, Jan Tomaszewski had the last laugh. At a despairing Wembley, Poland defied the odds and the desperate attacks of the Three Lions to thumb their noses at England to make their own journey to Germany with a subtext laced with its own heavy meaning.
The Polish goalie was incredible but at full time I recall my old man wishing the Poles well - that country has suffered. The veil of WW2 still cast a long shadow as I learned watching the seminal World At War with my folks in deferential silence as Lawrence Olivier delivered his superb narration accompanied by real footage and a signature tune and opening sequence that remains haunting.
In the summer of 1974 yours truly was leaving junior school, heading for an RC Secondary Modern set up to save souls and prepare its boys for dead end semi skilled jobs in factories with the sword of Damocles above them. The girls were to be prepared for roles as shop assistants, carers and office juniors if they were lucky before shelling out more bairns for the machine. In reality the school hosted the salt of the earth working class youth of the town - tough, grafters and many who’d defy the labels put on them by a boneheaded school system.
The entrance exam was to fail the 11-plus which I’d duly achieved with flying colours.
Those that passed became Gateshead’s left footer anointed children headed for the Grammar Schools of St Cuthbert’s, Sacred Heart and a few to La Sagesse. The cream of Gateshead’s Catholic youth would be prepared for the drawing rooms of Parsons or off to university even. The blazer demarcation on public transport picked us out - us in donkey jacket black of St John Fisher and the Grammar School boys and girls of St Cuthbert’s and Sacred Heart in maroon and green respectively. Occasionally girls in the brown of Central High would make an appearance traversing from Low Fell (a wannabe Gosforth like enclave hemmed in by the prole barrios of Deckham, Bensham, Harlow Green, Allerdene and further afield the badlands of Wrekenton and Springwell Estate). They were an exotic breed, living in big hooses and who spoke sans the Tyneside twang we conversed in. They were by Gateshead standards, posh.
Geordies of this era were very predisposed towards the Scots, regarding them as our natural kinfolk. Indeed without straying onto Dan Jackson territory, the DNA of Tyneside carries the heavy print of our Caledonian neighbours as it does Hibernia’s.
Scotland had qualified for West Germany 1974 so in our living room and plenty of others, we flew the Saltire, if not physically then in spirit.
Of course Scotland went off to Germany without an ageing Bob Moncur who sporadically turned out in dark blue and even captained his national team. Our former Fairs Cup captain departed United having played his last game for us in the FAC Final of ‘74 when Liverpool marmalised us 3-0. Moncur dropped a division and spent the dog-dump days of his career slumming it at Sunderland.
Not surprisingly given Champions Brazil had aged badly since ‘70 and to be honest were horribly disappointing, the World Cup story was about the hosts and the Netherlands, who we called Holland then.
Those two countries had the clubs which dominated the European Cup - Bayern Munich and Ajax. However before we got to West Germany, Dutch club Feyenoord of Rotterdam had won the European Cup having beaten Celtic in the 1972 Final at the San Siro. These two countries were European football royalty and with no real challenge from So America it was no surprise they faced off in the final.
Before that though Bonny Scotland had carried the hopes of the home nations. In truth although they failed to progress to the knock-out phases they had done reasonably well in the group stage. However an opening nils apiece with Zaire damaged them badly but the same blank draw with Brazil was far more credible, notwithstanding the World Champions’ fading powers. Scotland did round off their tournament with an excellent 2-0 win over Yugoslavia who had a strong football pedigree.
The big story of the tournament amongst council estate adolescents of my acquaintance was just how mint the Germans looked in their outstanding adidas gear. This was to be the first stirrings of a love affair with the German sports brand (though I’m ignoring the current monstrosity of a Newcastle United home shirt they have just put out) and those round necked tee-shirts with the three stripes and the trefoil were the must-haves for teens across Tyneside. I think I had to be sedated when my Mam ironed across the trefoil and took it clean off.
The Germans would win the final over the Netherlands and sadly that would be Cruyff’s only World Cup. That seems a tragedy for the player, his nation and the tournament. But Cruyff was not only an incredible footballer he was his own man and if it made sense to him that was enough. He was about to transfer the Total Football philosphy to Barcelona.
The Dutch had gone 1-0 up after a foul on Cruyff and famously before the Germans had even kicked the ball. As is their wont however, they came back to win 2-1 with goals from Paul Breitner (a penalty) and the decider from the brilliant Gerd Muller. Beckbenbauer lifted the trophy in Munich and we all felt sorry for that Dutch team and their orange clad fans.
The names of both teams echo down the decades and I still cannot think of either team without thinking of Muller, Hoeness, Vogts, Maier, Cruyff, Neeskens, Rep (he’d leave his mark on the SJP crowd a few years later), Haan, Jansen … apologies to others.
The true winners however were Rediffusion and DER who had shifted thousands of coloured tellies as massive sports events made them the consumer-must haves - World Cups, Olympics, FAC Finals, Wimbledon brought us out of the monochrome age.
1978 - Up Your Junta
Its weird being 13-15 isn’t it? You’re at school and in a year set with some lads who look like they could be working on a building site … beards, big shoulders and others like me who were obviously children. The same applied to girls … some of whom could easily have gone onto page 3. No wonder your head is all over the place at that age.
There are some things that stay in memory. Like playing an endless game of kickabout on the top grass when one of the big lads who was canny (i.e. didn’t nick the ball and lash it down the road for kicks) told a few of us conspiratorily … watch Top of The Pops tonight … the Sex Pistols are on. The band had been in the news with all of the folk devil hysteria you’d expect from the 70s tabloid press. I was starting to have a basic interest in rock music … I’d always liked The Beatles but borrowing my cousins’ copy of Ziggy Stardust (Bowie) turned me onto something I’d be grateful to them for the rest of my life. I’d later have something of a mid-teens obsession with Black Sabbath and a bit of prog rock with Genesis in particular (don’t judge me) but the real energy was elsewhere - The Clash, The Stranglers, The Damned and The Jam.
Anyway, I dutifully went indoors at 7pm on that very Thursday and after suffering the Nolans or some such … on came the mighty Sex Pistols … doing Pretty Vacant. I don’t remember if I watched and listened open-jawed but I should have. It was brilliant. A year later as the musical landscape had changed forever … TVs were tuned in for the World Cup in 1978.
I wouldn’t ever claim Argentina 1978 was the Punk Rock World Cup but perhaps West Germany 1974 was a bit prog … Tangerine Dream, Golden Earring … all of that hair … VW vans, the Amsterdam trippiness …. I’d best leave this here its going nowhere.
Not that the home nation were sporting anything near the hairstyles of old Albion’s leading Punk bands. Looking at that Argentina side you could quite imagine Mario Kempes doing a more than passable imitation as the lead singer of Deep Purple and Daniel Passerella giving it the big licks on the bass for Judas Priest or some such. So much fucking hair going on.
Once again, the world’s premier international competition was held with England sitting sullenly at home sticking pins in a Don Revie doll. Following a short internegrum with Joe Mercer as caretaker boss, Revie had been appointed as Ramsey’s successor after the failure to qualify for the ‘74 Finals. In truth he seemed like the best pick. He had shaped Leeds United into one of the country’s most successful sides and had the best record of all of his English contemporaries. It was inconceivable the puce faced blazers at Lancaster Gate would have countenanced appointing a Swede or an Italian or god forbid a German.
Brian Clough was a rival for the post but was always far too angular to get that job with an FA that would always appoint a cap doffing sort who knew his place. Where Ramsey would fail, Revie would too and with the writing on the wall, the Teessider sorted himself a lucrative contract in Saudi Arabia and invited the opprobrium of the media. I don’t think he gave a fuck.
Anyway … we were on the march with Ally’s Army to the Argentine who were determined to shake them up and win the World Cup. They had a song and the unshakeable confidence of manager Ally McLeod. Then the football started and the Scots failed to rise to the occasion … defeated by a Peru side wearing an iconic First Holy Communion kit 3-1, managed to beat the Netherlands 3-2 but with the knock-out stages fading unfathomably drew ones apiece with Iran, meaning they were on the boat home in ignominy. Off the park let’s just say there were (cough) challenges. Willie Johnstone had been caught taking a banned substance (which he claimed was to treat his hay fever) in a random drugs test and sent home. He was banned for 12 months and never played for Scotland ever again.
Brazil were still in their post-Pele funk, the Netherlands were fancied but not the same without their main man Cruyff who didn’t fancy it, West Germany and Italy were always in the running but all eyes were on Argentina.
It is fair to say the Argentine World Cup triumph remains tainted. There are more than a few dark tales of pressure being applied on officials and the Peruvian FA. Even the final itself was controversial with the Argentines making much of a cast worn by Dutch player René van de Kerkhof. Shithousery? Maybe that and a bit more. Pearls were clutched in fair play blighty.
What can’t be disputed however is how much the Argentine people wanted to win the World Cup and matches were played in a fevered atmosphere … all tickertape and noise which had me captivated watching from our living room. The Netherlands would lose another final to the host nation … this time 3-1 to Argentina amidst hysteria in Buenos Aires.
The tournament would see several Argentine players come to the English Football League … most notably Ossie Ardiles and Ricky Villa to Spurs but also Alex Sabella to Sheffield United, Albert Tarantini to Birmingham and Claudio Marangoni to Sunderland who was shite. We were too busy going about the business of getting relegated following the disaster of Richard Dinnis and were picking players from Blyth Spartans rather than Boca Juniors.
TBC
Michael Martin - @TFMick1892.bsky.social
Last weekend
Bank Robbers
Mexico 70, the CIA, Gordon Banks getting the Gary Glitters - give this a listen.
TF You Tube
Brilliant Brazil
A great read around the background of Brazil’s iconic World Cup win of 1970 - so good FIFA let them keep the trophy.
See you next week …
Michael Martin - @TFMick1892.bsky.social
Brilliant piece Michael. We are of a similar age so same memories but Mexico 70 still stands out for me. My dad somehow managed to buy me the full Brazil strip and that was great as a 10 year old. Happy memories indeed 😀⚽️
Great read, great memories! In those days the commentators always sounded to me as if they were broadcasting from the moon. Like they were a million miles away. It all looked and felt so exotic & different & far away.