by Tim Flower
‘I didn’t keep you waiting I hope, Mr Forsyth?’ He looked me up and down like a parade sergeant major.
‘Is that the darkest suit you possess?’
It was the only suit I possessed; but I wasn’t about to admit that. ‘Yes, I’m afraid it is’, I replied in my best Home Service accent.
He gave me the look. ‘Sit down over there.’ He pointed to the cubicle he had been monitoring.
The toilet lid and seat were both up. Being unfamiliar with the etiquette in such situations, I hesitated.
‘Close the lavatory and sit down.’
I complied. I had been in the hot seat several times, but never one like this.
I hurried to compose myself. ‘I thought you might like to see these notes I prepared.’ I half stood up, handed him the photocopy Rita had made for me and squatted back down on the toilet.
He gave them a cursory glance. ‘Did you copy them here?’
‘Rita… err Miss Davies did. I’m afraid I didn’t—’
‘Good.’ He discarded them in the washbasin next to him. ‘What do they say?’
With a dry mouth and tight throat, I summarised my research and findings as best I could; but Forsyth quickly became impatient. ‘What’s the story, Miller?’
‘I was going to come to that.’
‘Come to it now, would you?’
‘Of course. I believe the vast majority of the country are unaware that a North Korean team is due here for the World Cup.’
‘Do you indeed.’
‘Yes. If they were, there would have been a public outcry by now.’
‘So?’
‘That’s our front-page story.’
‘What is?’
In my opinion the only story was that, in July, twenty-two sub-average footballers from a far-off, tin-pot dictatorship would briefly stay in a hotel just outside Darlington, before being eliminated from the World Cup and promptly returning home to their loved ones. But that wasn’t going to appear on the front page of the Darlington & Stockton Times, let alone any of the Fleet Street dailies. So the story I pitched to Forsyth was, essentially, Nell’s take on this impending event.
‘FIFA have invited a communist country - who, only a decade or so ago, was waging war against 100,000 of our boys, killing more than a 1,000 of them and wounding or imprisoning 4,000 others - to come over here in July and play in our World Cup. The headline would be, “Commie foe to invade Britain”.’
Like a master addressing a particularly dim pupil, Forsyth said, ‘If we incited the public like that, they would demand the Government did something about it.’
‘Yes, I’ve thought of that.’
‘Have you really.’
‘The Government can get FIFA to ban North Korea, just like they did Germany and Japan for the 1950 World Cup.’
‘Miller, we’re merely the host nation. We can’t tell FIFA to do anything.’
‘But the President, Sir Stanley Rous: he’s English.’
‘He is indeed. And whilst you can safely assume that Sir Stanley himself would be happy to exclude a rogue communist state that no civilised country even recognises, FIFA wouldn’t ban them from the World Cup merely on his say so. I know: he and we have already tried.’
‘You have?’
‘Of course. The Foreign Office even threatened to refuse the team visas to enter the country. FIFA countered that they would take the competition away from England and have West Germany host it.’
‘Could they do that?’
‘For barring “a duly qualified team”, yes they could - and would.’
‘But even if North Korean weren’t banned, the issue would get the World Cup on the front pages, which is what you wanted.’
‘Why would we whip up the public to demand something we know we can’t deliver?’
That stumped me.
‘You may know a lot about football, Miller, but you have a great deal to learn about government and politics.’ Forsyth retrieved the copy of my notes from the washbasin and handed it to me. ‘Now, what’s your next idea?’
I didn’t have a next idea. That was my only one. And, since it had taken me three days to come up with it, I was hardly likely to think, in a matter of seconds, of an alternative. But admitting to Forsyth I had no other ideas was equally unthinkable. So, after pointlessly turning the pages of my notes - as if expecting to miraculously find a second idea amongst them - I started to ramble. ‘Aside from bans, boycotts etc, another category of World Cup story that has made front-page headlines in the past is what you might call “exceptional incidents”. These often involve acts of violence at a match.’
‘You mean by hooligans in the crowd?’
‘No, by players on the pitch. Like the “Battle of Santiago” for example.’
‘That was a football match?’
I felt momentary relief as Forsyth appeared to engage with my waffle. ‘Yes, Chile v Italy in the last World Cup. Both sides committed the most atrocious acts of brutality ever seen on a football field.’
‘That’s Latins for you,’ he said with a look of resignation. ‘Are there any World Cup matches before 31st March that are likely to descend into barbarous anarchy?’
There weren’t any World Cup matches before 31st March, period. But I couldn’t possibly say that. ‘Now you come to mention it, I don’t think they’re any that you could rely on to turn violent.’
‘Then why raise the subject?’
The toilet lid began to feel extremely hard and uncomfortable.
‘Did you find any front-page stories that aren’t about kicking out a team, literally or metaphorically?’
‘No World Cup stories, I’m afraid. I researched reports of every tournament since they started in 1930. The problem is England only started participating after the war, in— ’
‘What other soccer tournaments are there?’
‘Involving England?’
‘Any tournament that has generated a front-page story.’
I hadn’t researched any other tournament. I didn’t think I needed to. I started rambling again. ‘The biggest domestic tournament is, of course, the FA Cup. That is taking place currently and— ’
‘What big news stories did you find about that one?’
‘News stories? About the F.A. Cup?’
My prevarication visibly irritated Forsyth. ‘Yes,’ he said, in a drawn out, supercilious manner. ‘What news stories have there been about the FA Cup?’
I could only think of Reg’s story in the Birmingham Post, about the man admitting he had stolen the cup 63 years earlier and made half-crowns from it. Whilst I couldn’t see how it could possibly be relevant to “Jules Britannia”, I related it nonetheless.
I expected to be interrupted again. However, Forsyth quickly appeared lost in thought. After ending a subdued, uncomfortable, telling of the story, I added, ‘I know that’s not very helpful. I could do some more research today and let you know later?’
Forsyth said nothing. Instead, he stood erect, so he was no longer propped by the basin surround, and strode purposefully out of my view. I got up and, out of habit, pulled the porcelain handle on the chain. To my embarrassment, the toilet roared into life and the high, cast iron cistern groaned as it filled again.
Emerging from the cubicle, I saw Forsyth at the furthest sunken basin, conscientiously washing his hands with a small bar of Pears soap. After drying them thoroughly on a white linen roller-towel bearing the Government’s coat of arms, he said, ‘There isn’t anything more for you to do for the time being. Miss Davies will contact you when we need you next.’
Having checked his hair and moustache and ensured the knot of his tie was tight against his collar, he pulled back the door of the gents and disappeared.
For a moment I didn’t know what to do. But then, relieved that I had somehow got through the ordeal and lived to fight another day, I got an irresistible urge to pee.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Saturday, 19th March 1966
Over the next t
hree weeks or so, I had regularly telephoned Rita offering my assistance with Operation Jules Britannia. On each occasion, she had reported that Forsyth was tied up fighting the General Election, but said she would telephone me if he needed my help. He had led me to believe that front page publicity of the impending World Cup was a key weapon in that fight. So when, by the third Saturday of March, with the election looming, I still hadn’t heard back from Rita, I began to wonder whether Forsyth had dropped me from his Operation Jules Britannia team.
While I waited to hear from Number 10 either way, I had got on with my day job. Earlier in the month, I had reported on the Division One, north London derby between Arsenal and Spurs. Now, eleven days later, it was Merseyside’s turn. Its local teams - Everton and Liverpool - were due to play each other at Goodison Park.
Going into the match, Liverpool were leading the table by a comfortable nine points and Everton were fifteen points adrift in eighth place. Whatever the clubs’ relative positions, however, a Merseyside derby - blue v red - was always a huge match, played before a capacity crowd. It was the derby that beat all derbies; and for Dave Horridge - the Mirror reporter assigned exclusively to Merseyside football - it would have been the highlight of his season, had he not been in, what locals call, “the ozzy”.
As it was, he had broken his thumb, crank starting a neighbour’s Morris Minor and was in the Liverpool Royal Infirmary. So I was sent up to my old stomping ground to cover the game.
Da was a long-standing member of “The Kop”: the famous army of Liverpool football fans who occupied The Kop end of their home ground, Anfield. I knew that, unless he too had been detained in hospital (and with a condition so serious he could not possibly break out) he would also be attending the game. So I arranged to meet him in the Liverpool fans’ traditional pre-match haunt, The Cabbage Hall on the corner of Breck Road.
By the time I arrived, shortly after 2 o’clock, Da and a large contingent of The Kop had already got a few pints and a pie inside them and were leaving the pub to start walking the mile to their rival’s ground at Goodison Park. They all wore red and white scarves; some had matching bobble hats and painted wooden rattles. Wearing my normal work attire, I felt like the odd one out. But it didn’t stop me joining in the chanting and singing in support of “The Reds”.
Nearing the exit to Stanley Park that led to “blue” territory, we gave the assembling Everton fans a rendition of the Liverpool anthem, You’ll Never Walk Alone. As Da launched into the rousing chorus - “Walk on. Walk o-o-on…” - he started coughing violently.
I took him to one side. ‘Da, are you alright?’
He was grimacing and clutching his chest. I sat him down on the one remaining plank of a vandalised bench. He hung his head, gave another deep, guttural cough and spat out a large glob of thick brown phlegm.
‘It’s these ciggies,’ he said, discarding the remainder of his cigarette. ‘No. 6 are meant to be better for yer like, ‘cause they’re tipped. They make me cough.’
I wasn’t convinced. Smoking forty a day was a more likely cause. Ma would complain that he spent more on beer and Woodbines than he gave her.
‘You should see the doctor, like Ma says.’
‘He knows nothing. Last time he gives us a sick note to say I can’t work. I tell him: “What do I want that for? If I don’t work, we don’t eat”.’
‘But Da, if you’re not fit to work, you should get National Assistance.’
‘I don’t want no charity.’
‘It isn’t charity. You’ve paid your stamp. You’re entitled to it.’
‘I don’t need no help, lad. I’ll see yer Ma and me right.’
It was pointless arguing. Once he had made his mind up, there was no shifting him. ‘Come on, let’s get inside. I’ll buy you a Bovril.’ I helped him to his feet, and we continued, less raucously, towards the ground.
Goodison Park had the appearance of being shoe-horned into too small a space. It was tightly surrounded by Victorian houses; and St Luke’s church, protruding between two of the stands, was a matter of yards from one of the corner flags. As we approached the Park End Stand, I pointed out that some of the adjacent terraced houses had been demolished. Da was critical. ‘Tearing down workers homes to line their own pockets. That’s shite.’
‘It’s in preparation for the World Cup, Da: to make a new entrance way from Stanley Park. Goodison Park is going to host the group games involving Brazil, as well as a semi-final.’
‘Why’d they stop there? They should’ve bulldozed the whole fuckin’ ground and played the games at Anfield.’ He exploded into laughter and started coughing again.
With the kick-off imminent, Da went to join The Kop in the Park End Stand and I took up my place in what was the biggest press box in the country by far, packed with the football writing elite.
Unfortunately, the match did not live up to its billing. It was an uneventful 0-0 draw which, although giving Liverpool an away point and keeping them well ahead of the chasing pack, produced little to interest the non-aficionados amongst the 62,000 spectators. Nor did it support my case for retaining England’s wingers. There had been three on the field - Liverpool’s Callaghan and Thompson, and Everton’s Derek Temple - and they created nothing.
The copy I had sketched out, whilst adequate, was bland and formulaic. So I hurried down to the dressing room area in the hope that the departing managers and players would give me something more stimulating.
I blagged a brief interview with Liverpool’s manager, Bill Shankly. You could always rely on “Shanks” for a few choice words and he didn’t disappoint. When asked for his verdict on the match, in a thick Ayrshire accent he replied, “Today, we gifted Everton a point.” He paused before, with typical caustic wit, adding, “And, looking down the league table, they need it”.
This, and a couple of other quotes, enabled me to file copy that, whilst not exceptional, wouldn’t let down my colleague, Dave Horridge. I phoned it in and, before heading off to The Cabbage Hall to meet Da, retired to the players lounge for a quick drink. What I learnt there was exceptional - in fact it was nothing short of sensational.
Whilst such rooms were provided for the players to relax in after a match, trusted media men were often allowed to join them. Like most, the Goodison Park lounge had been furnished in club colours. It was dominated by a royal blue leatherette fronted bar surrounded by white upholstered, polished chrome stools. Even the snooker table at the back had been re-covered so that the baize conformed to the colour scheme. This didn’t deter Our Rog from playing on it. When I arrived, he was bent over the table, about to pot the final black. Although I could only see him waist down, from the size of the backside, I knew it was Rog. Liverpool’s Ian Callaghan once told me, “It’s huge. You can spot it from anywhere on the pitch and find him with a pass”.
I bought us both a pint, and having won the frame and collected his winnings, Rog joined me at the bar. I had got to know him in 1962, when Liverpool were promoted to Division One and I moved back to Merseyside with The Mirror. He was a good-looking fella with blond hair, green eyes and a cheeky smile that the girls adored. We had often hit the town together to celebrate Liverpool’s successes or - thankfully less often - drown our sorrows after a defeat. Rog generally mistrusted newspaper reporters. But he knew he could talk “off the record” to me, without the risk of his words ending up in print.
Having briefly discussed the match, I brought up the topic of selection for England’s World Cup squad. Including Rog, eight of those who I had just seen play had England caps already and others, like Ian Callaghan, could reasonably expect one before too long. We considered each position on the field in turn. When we got to left back, Rog said that Ramsey’s clear favourite was Everton’s Ray Wilson. Seeing a challenger for his position, sat on a stool, further along the bar, I whispered to Rog, ‘What about your teammate Gerry Byrne? He’s only twenty-seven, whereas Ray will soon be thirty-two. Ramsey may think he’s getting a bit long in the tooth, even for a full
back.’
In his usual matter-of-fact, Lancashire tone, he replied, ‘No chance. Ramsey played full back for England when he was thirty-three.’
‘Are you sure? I thought his last cap was that disastrous game against Hungary in ‘53’
‘Yeah. It was.’
‘Then he played his last game for England when he was thirty-one. I did a piece on him, recently. Who’s Who says he was born in 1922. I remember: it was the same year Liverpool won the League.’
Rog scanned the immediate vicinity, to check he wouldn’t be overhead. Then in a hushed voice he said, ‘The records show he was born in 1922 because that’s what the documents he forged say. He was actually born in 1920.’
Alf Ramsey was the epitome of honest, hard-working respectability. He had statesmanlike qualities that had earned him the nickname “The General”. The idea of him doing anything unprincipled, let alone unlawful, was incomprehensible.
‘What! The General forged his birth certificate?’
‘Shh! Don’t tell the whole room.’
I whispered, ‘Surely not. If he found a tanner in the street, he’d take it to a police station.’
‘I don’t know whether it was his birth certificate. But whatever it was, convinced Southampton and, later, Spurs that he was two years younger than he really was.’
‘Why would he do that?’
‘The war had cost him six playing years. He thought he might be too old to get a professional contract.’
‘Did he tell you this himself?’
‘No, of course not. Greavsie picked it up when he joined Spurs.’
‘How come?’
‘He wouldn’t say. But my guess is he got it from the gaffer.’
‘Bill Nicholson?’
‘Him and Alf played together at Spurs. They were good mates by all accounts.’
The consequences of what Rog was telling me began to sink in. ‘Lying to your employers can be serious.’
‘This is between you and me, Harry. It’s definitely not for printing.’
