by Tim Flower
My despondency continued up to and through lunch at a restaurant in Central Glasgow called Rogano and our chauffeur driven journey from there to Hampden Park. However, once we had taken our seats in the huge national stadium shortly before the big match kicked off, I suddenly felt a good deal happier about the briefing.
On my only other visit to Hampden Park, to report on what proved to be the third in a hat-trick of wins for Scotland against the “Auld Enemy”, I was perched in the crow’s nest of a press box, in the roof of the vertiginous South Stand, that overlooked the halfway line. I had a literally bird’s-eye view of the massive, open terraces that otherwise surrounded the pitch, on which over a hundred thousand raucous Scots stood, like a Jacobite army waiting to ambush their English foe. I had watched the match below me in dread of Scotland scoring: not only being a patriotic Englishman, but because I knew the famous “Hampden Roar” could raise the roof of the South Stand and the press box with it.
The tickets Forsyth had for the 1966 re-match were also in the South Stand. But, naturally, they were for seats in the VIP area, at a lower altitude. We emerged into the sunlight to take our places as, just beneath us, the two teams - Scotland in navy blue and England in white - marched in line onto the verdant pitch.
To the more than a hundred and twenty thousand, mainly Scottish, spectators packed into the stadium, this game mattered. It mattered a lot. Scotland were playing England; the title of “British Champions” was at stake; and the home supporters desperately wanted their team to show that Scotland, not England, should have been Britain’s representative at the summer’s World Cup. They showed it by greeting the teams with a deafening Hampden Roar that championed the men in blue and demanded they draw English blood. Despite being English, I could not help but be moved by the febrile atmosphere inside the stadium. It was as if football’s “Battle of Bannockburn” was about to begin.
I glanced at Forsyth beside me. He was staring fixedly at the players lined up below us, as they prepared for the national anthem. He didn’t utter a word. But his moist eyes and the way his hands were strangling a rolled up, match programme, showed his feelings. To my considerable relief and satisfaction, he was experiencing, first-hand, the impact a home crowd can have.
After little more than half-an-hour, Scotland were two-nil down. However, it did little to dampen their fans’ ardour; they continued to rally their team and urge them to strike back. And three minutes before half-time, their hero, Denis Law, did. So, as the teams left the field for a cup of tea and an orange, and Forsyth led me into the VIP bar for something stronger, the home crowd again expressed their tartan passion to the full.
Forsyth ordered two large Glencadam whiskies. While we waited for them, I filled the awkward silence with, ‘The roar when Scotland score is so loud they say it can be heard over a mile away.’
Forsyth didn’t respond. Instead, he stared at a photograph on the wall above our table of some of the almost one hundred and fifty thousand crowd who had witnessed the equivalent Home International in 1937. The faces were full of passion. Whilst pointing to it, he said, ‘I want Wembley like that, Miller - a cauldron of nationalistic fervour,’ as if he could order it, like our whiskies or the Cock-a-leekie soup with which he had started lunch.
‘The problem is, the roar we heard is the product of a rivalry that has developed over centuries,’ I said, trying to manage his expectations.
‘I’m well aware of the history of Scottish enmity towards the English, Miller.’ The way he glowered at me confirmed it.
‘Yes… of course, Mr Forsyth. It’s just — ’
‘I’m as Scots as any man in this stadium,’ he said with a Dundee burr, for the benefit of his fellow countrymen at adjacent tables. Then he leant forward and whispered, ‘Nonetheless, like you, I’d rather we didn’t prevail today.’
I found this extraordinary. ‘Oh? Why’s that, Mr Forsyth?’
‘I want Ramsey’s men to take the field in the World Cup unbeaten - since that debacle in Brazil, anyway - and I want the prospect of playing them to daunt their opponents.’
If we hadn’t been surrounded by Scots, many of whom wore kilts with daggers in their socks, I might have pointed out that England had, in fact, been defeated only six months previously, at home to Austria, a team that hadn’t been good enough to win any of its World Cup qualifying matches. As it was, I decided not to risk betraying my nationality to what looked like Bonnie Prince Charlie’s army, by demonstrating a detailed knowledge of England’s prior performances. Instead, I raised my glass, said, ‘I’ll drink to that,’ and downed the rest of my whisky.
When the match resumed, the second forty-five minutes followed a similar pattern to the first. England twice went into a two-goal lead; and, cheered on by a crowd fuelled by pints of “heavy”, Scotland twice pulled one back. England also had two undeniable penalties denied by the French referee: first when a Scottish defender palmed the ball away when Geoff Hurst was about to score; secondly when Alan Ball was blatantly tripped well inside the penalty box.
The significance of these incidents was not lost on Forsyth. ‘The locals seem to have got inside Monsieur Faucheux’s head,’ he said, seemingly unsure whether this was good or bad.
Henri Faucheux was a respected international referee. There was no question of him deliberately favouring the Scots. But when a referee knows that over 100,000 very vocal witnesses to the incident will swear it wasn’t a penalty, he could be forgiven for concluding that they might just be right.
Forsyth also noted that Faucheux didn’t always penalise foul play, even when the culprit was English. I explained that, generally speaking, referees from the northern half of Europe were used to the more physical, hard-tackling style of football played in England and Scotland and interpreted the rules accordingly. Referees from Southern Europe weren’t used to this style of play and so were more likely to penalise it.
This was reflected in the regions’ differing attitudes to tackling from behind. In northern Europe, a player could legally take the opponents legs away from under him, provided that he came away with the ball. Latin countries, in contrast, considered that technical, rather than physical, superiority should be rewarded, and so protected the virtuoso by outlawing such tackles. French referees could fall into either camp; but Faucheux was more of a northern style referee.
For once, Forsyth listened attentively to what I had to say. Then, whilst the game was paused for an injured player to be revived with a wet sponge, he enquired, ‘So, Miller, it would be to England’s advantage to have as many northern European referees officiating as possible, would it?’
‘Provided they aren’t Scottish,’ I replied light-heartedly.
He ignored my quip. ‘Who decides who the referees will be?’
‘The world governing body, FIFA. They will draw up a panel comprising referees from a wide variety of member countries.’
‘When will they do that?’
I recalled what Nell had told me. ‘It’s immediately the English season finishes. So the middle of next month.’
‘I see.’
The game resumed, but Forsyth’s attention seemed to remain focussed on future matches. After a few minutes’ contemplation, he said, ‘Isn’t the current FIFA President English?’
‘Yes, Sir Stanley Rous. He was a former topflight referee.’
‘Was he now? So he will readily understand the issues you’ve mentioned - and our perspective on them?’
‘Certainly,’ I said with confidence, but no appreciation of the reason for his sudden interest in football referees.
‘Splendid.’
The England team finished winners by four goals to three. By playing the Manchester United winger, John Connelly, Alf Ramsey had partially compromised on the “wingless wonders” approach adopted against West Germany. Even so, the team had lacked the flair and individual displays of magic in attack that the tricky Scottish winger, Jimmy Johnstone, had shown and their defence had repeatedly proved incapable of containi
ng such a player. Despite the win, therefore, I left Hampden Park with no more confidence that England could become World Champions than I had when I arrived.
The VIP lounge at Prestwick Airport’s new terminal was situated below ground. According to the Brigitte Bardot look-a-like at the reception, this was to reduce the noise from the Boeing 707s taking off outside. It had walnut clad walls, was lit by dozens of inset ceiling lights and furnished with cream leatherette egg chairs, arranged around glass and chrome pedestal coffee tables. All the occupants were men in expensive looking suits, except for the ground hostesses, almost all of whom were fussing around a man with a groovy blonde Beatle mop.
As we found a table nearby, I had caught sight of the man’s face and immediately recognised him.
‘Illya Kuryakin is sitting over there,’ I said to Forsyth discretely, flicking my eyes in the star’s direction. ‘Can you see?’
‘Who?’
‘The Russian secret agent in — ’
‘Russian secret agent?’, Forsyth repeated incredulously and a little too loudly. Two of the hostesses turned towards us and smiled.
From the look on his face, it was obvious Forsyth was one of the very few who, at eight o’clock on Thursday nights, didn’t watch The Man from U.N.C.L.E.. Either that or he hadn’t forgiven the programme for distracting Labour supporters from casting their votes. ‘How do you know he’s a Soviet agent?’
‘Well, he isn’t really — ’
‘Then why did you say he was?’ Forsyth glared at me, as if I was an imbecile. ‘It was just such a ridiculous rumour that instigated MI5’s investigation of the PM. No wonder the man is paranoid.’
‘Sorry, I meant he’s that Scottish actor, David McCallum... He plays a secret agent... on TV.’ I wished I had kept my celebrity spot to myself.
Forsyth sat down with his back to the actor, clicked his fingers loudly at the only non-star-struck hostess and ordered two large Glencadams.
Half-an-hour later, our silent whisky-sipping and magazine-browsing was interrupted by the terminal’s tannoy. ‘British United Airways regret to announce that its jet aircraft for the nineteen-thirty hours service to Gatwick has been delayed on its inbound flight.’ Despite the airport being only an hour’s drive from Glasgow city centre, the announcer spoke with a cut-glass BBC accent. ‘Would all passengers for this service kindly remain in the departures lounge and await further announcements.’
Forsyth responded by demanding the replenishment of our glasses and snatching the copy of Autocar I had been flicking through. But it wasn’t long before he tossed it back and commandeered my attention.
‘Tell me Miller, how do we ensure that, when the England team perform in front of the Queen in their first World Cup game, Wembley roars like Hampden Park?’
Under the influence of the alcohol I had been drinking steadily all day, I was franker than I would have been sat soberly in Forsyth’s office or on the toilet at Number 10. ‘Only Ramsey can do that by picking players with skill and flair and allowing them to express themselves. He has to give them licence to play attractive, attacking football. That’s what gets a crowd going: makes them passionate and noisy. Like the home crowd was today.’
‘Scotland may have pleased the crowd, Miller, but they didn’t win.’
‘What I’m saying is they need to do both - like the current World Champions, Brazil. England won today, but they generated about as much passion as Ena Sharples.’
Forsyth looked pensive. As I was beginning to think I had overstepped the mark, Forsyth responded, ‘Who is she? Another Soviet agent?’
‘Ena Sharples. You know, the OAP with the hairnet in Coronation Street?’
‘That’s a soap opera on the commercial channel, is it not?’
‘Eh, yes. It’s on — ’
‘Never mind, Miller. Tell me this: when is the next England match at Wembley?’
‘On 4th May. It’s a friendly against Yugoslavia.’
‘A friendly? That’s good.’
As I was about to elaborate that the match would be the last home one before the World Cup Finals started, I spotted entering the lounge, a familiar rounded face, bushy eyebrows and balding head. ‘Talk of the devil.’ I then realised the potential for confusion. ‘I mean, it’s Alf Ramsey - not Ena Sharples.’
‘Mr Ramsey? Fancy that.’ Forsyth sounded interested but didn’t turn to look.
‘He’s with Denis Howell and the FA Chairman, Joe Mears.’
Mears, shuffling along behind the other two, had the pallor and demeanour of a man recovering from a heart attack. It was difficult to imagine that, twenty-odd years ago, he was secretly ensuring Churchill’s safety.
As the three men chose themselves a table on the opposite side of the lounge to the honeypot that was David McCallum, I saw an opportunity to score some brownie points with Forsyth. ‘Would you like me to introduce you to Mr Ramsey?’
Although I couldn’t say I really knew the England manager, I had a better relationship with him than many of my fellow football writers, as evidenced by the fact he would, usually, give me a few words rather than the icy stare he gave them. I put this down to the fact that with him, like all my contacts, I always played it straight. Therefore, he trusted me. Of course, had he known I had tried to expose his duplicity, he would have almost certainly viewed me differently.
Forsyth declined my offer. ‘Howell will do the introductions. You stay here Miller.’
He approached the three VIPs and greeted not only the Minister of Sport but also Joe Mears like he was a colleague. This surprised me: I could think of no reason for Forsyth to have crossed paths with Mears, let alone got to know him. Forsyth ordered a round of Glencadams and, as soon as they were served, appeared to lead the other men in an intense, confidential discussion, leaving me to nurse the remains of my whisky and finish reading Autocar.
I was must have quickly nodded off, because my next memory is a shout of ‘wakey-wakey,’ and opening my eyes to find Forsyth standing over me, holding his hat, raincoat and briefcase, telling me to get a move on because the final call for the London flight had been announced ten minutes ago. Still half asleep, I raised myself out of my womb-like chair, gathered up my belongings and hurried after the others who were already saying their goodbyes to Brigitte Bardot.
On the flight back, lubricated by more complimentary alcohol, Forsyth gave me his verdict on the England team manager.
‘I like Ramsey,’ he said in a hushed tone, conscious no doubt that the man himself was sitting only a few rows behind us. ‘He’s a leader and a professional. He has a sound strategy for the World Cup. His team will be more dedicated than the others, it will work harder than the others, and it won’t take any prisoners. We’re in safe hands, Miller. Ramsey is like Churchill: he doesn’t countenance losing.’
Whilst I couldn’t argue with Forsyth’s appraisal of the England manager, he appeared to have forgotten the lesson of the day: loud, passionate support was the equivalent of an extra man. Ramsey’s robots wouldn’t generate more than a Wembley whimper. ‘The trouble is, if England play at Wembley like they did against West Germany, they won’t have the crowd behind them. They’ll lose the key home team advantage.’
‘You are confusing manufacturing with marketing, Miller.’
‘I’m not entirely sure what you mean, Mr Forsyth.’ I lied: I hadn’t got a clue - possibly because my brain was, by now, drowning in free booze.
In contrast, a diet largely comprising liquid grain and grape seemed to have inspired Forsyth’s imagination. ‘Take the British Motor Corporation. They combined innovative design with advanced engineering to manufacture the world beating Mini. Nevertheless, this alone wouldn’t have generated sales of over a million. They were the result of marketing, which sold the small box on wheels as “today’s car” for the modern family and its luggage.’
The Mini was a marketing miracle. With a ten by four chassis and without a proper boot, no way could it accommodate the average holidaying family. Yet, it a
ppeared, numerous families had bought one. However, I couldn’t see what this had to do with the England football team.
Clearly this was apparent to Forsyth, for he sighed and tutted, before wearily elaborating that, ‘Ramsey is manufacturing an England team who can win the World Cup. That’s his job and his job alone. Ours is the different and distinct one of selling that team to Joe Public. Do you understand?’
In my alcoholic fog, I didn’t. But, judging by his look and tone, further explanation was out of the question. So, nodding sagely, I replied, ‘Yes, Mr Forsyth.’
‘Good. Because, as part of our marketing of the team, I have a very important task for you.’
With my head feeling as if it was full of tapioca pudding, I prayed that, whatever the task was, it didn’t have to be done that evening.
My prayers were answered. ‘In just over a fortnight’s time, Denis Howell will meet Mr Ramsey and senior members of the FA to discuss final arrangements for the World Cup tournament. I want you to write a paper for him to present at that meeting describing how we evoke at Wembley the passion and patriotism we experienced today at Hampden Park.’
Whilst immensely relieved to have two weeks to produce my copy, I was concerned that Forsyth still seemed to be under the misapprehension that the home team’s “extra man” could be summoned like a servant. ‘As I indicated earlier, Mr Forsyth, that will be far from easy, not least because the last time England were at Wembley they got booed off.’
‘If it was easy, Miller, you wouldn’t be flying home First Class, having watched the Home Championship decider from one of the best seats in the house and enjoyed VIP travel and hospitality throughout the day.’
‘No, of course not Mr Forsyth. I do appreciate you allowing me to accompany you.’
‘Goo-od,’ he said, in an unduly protracted manner, and gave me a greasy grin.
