by Greg Tesser
In 1970, Tony commissioned me to write an article for one of their glossy special editions, ‘Men At Arms’. Called ‘Playing the Game’, it was a light-hearted look at the way sport had changed over the years and how it was now being promoted. Within the intro to the piece, I was described as ‘business and promotional manager for some of the country’s top footballers’.
Now as far as the current generation of football fans is concerned, the game only started to exist in 1992, with the advent of the Premier League and all the Sky TV megabucks sloshing about aboard some kind of ongoing gravy train. Also in media terms, the world of celebrity and soccer only formed a marriage in the 1990s and beyond. The world of Chelsea FC in the 1960s and ’70’s, and its vast array of star supporters, seems to have been conveniently forgotten.
In fact Peter Osgood summed it all up for me some sixteen years ago when he said: ‘I suppose many people will think we lived it up à la Hollywood, all champagne fountains and all-night parties. When the vice-chairman, Dickie Attenborough, brought Steve McQueen to our dressing room, it was the proudest moment of my life. In those days, everyone who was anyone was a Blues nut: Leonard Rossiter, John Cleese, Michael Caine, even Henry Kissinger. Life is so much different now – stars watching their favourite football team is not such a novelty.’
And certainly in my Men Only article, I highlighted how football had and was still changing culturally: ‘Now footballers own boutiques and drive flashy sports cars and wear kipper ties decorated with red flowers and grow elegant beards or moustaches.’
Sportsmanship in the modern game has disappeared, write the scribes. Well, take a look at what I penned over forty years ago in the same piece: ‘After all, what is professional sport, but a world where young men are kicked, hit and occasionally spat at. It has no relationship with the old ideals of sportsmanship. Today it is essentially an extension of war. We cannot drop nuclear bombs so we play international soccer and bite and spit.’
This ‘special’ was the final production of Men Only in its original form; soon it was to change – some would say for the worse – as Tony Power became a highly-paid employee of the King of Soho himself, Paul Raymond, following the purchase of the title for £10,000.
Under Raymond’s more raunchy direction, Men Only threw any thoughts of quality magazine writing out the window, as its pages became more and more visually sexually explicit. As editor, Tony promoted this new-look production with relish, and even that collector of babes, Hugh Hefner, suddenly realised he had a fight on his hands. For years, and in particular during the 1950s and early ’60s Hefner had fought the cause of more sexual freedoms, but now thanks to Power and Raymond, poor old Hugh’s Playboy was looking old hat as the Men Only brand of pin-up evolved each month into out-and-out pornography.
Raymond was a rich man. During the austere, black-and-white years of the 1950s, he had cleverly tapped into the world of erotica by flouting the censorship laws that still dominated British society. Women could appear nude, but could not move. The ‘Windmill Theatre (‘We never close’) had been the provider of visual titillation since the 1930s with its ‘tasteful’ tableau of nudes, but Raymond realised that the public (well the men anyway!) craved more. So, in a quiet Soho alleyway – Walker’s Court – he opened a club, Raymond’s Revuebar. It being a club, it gave him carte blanche to put on a show which could defy the archaic censorship regulations, without breaking the law.
The heyday of the club was undoubtedly the 1960s, when a whole host of stars visited the club. I remember one late-night at this ‘symbol of sin’ in particular, when looking round I noticed not dirty old men in dirty macs, but well-heeled people of both sexes, including actors Peter Sellers and John Mills (a Chelsea fan by the way) and rugby aficionado Stanley Baker. Singer Alma Cogan and Britain’s blond bombshell Diana Dors were other regular poppers-in, as was Judy Garland. There was no doubt that this temple to bosoms was the place to be.
Tony Power introduced me to Paul Raymond. He smiled a great deal and was polite, but I must say I found him difficult to relate to. He certainly didn’t seem to me to be Tony’s cup of tea, but he was obviously paying the former editor of Striker a wad of cash, so I guess Tony just adapted.
Ossie met Tony a few times, and like me, he enjoyed his company and his general bonhomie. Certainly during his tenure as Striker editor he proved himself to be a close ally and did much to help bolster the PR side of the Chelsea man, no more so than in August 1970 when he came to announce the Striker of the Year Award. There was obviously going to be only one winner, and his name was Peter Osgood. To say that we fixed the result would be harsh, but let us say we ‘massaged’ the votes a wee bit – just a case of two Blues fans sticking together!
The match chosen for the presentation was the 1970 Charity Shield. In those days the season curtain raiser was not a Wembley event, and on a hot August afternoon FA Cup holders Chelsea played host to League Champions Everton at Stamford Bridge.
Everton dominated the encounter, with Alan Ball, sporting a natty pair of white boots, in sparkling form. Alan Hudson remembers it well: ‘You have got to remember that I was still recovering from all my ankle problems. I was also zonked mentally because my injury problems meant that I had not only missed out on our FA Cup success, but also had to cry off from any England involvement in Mexico.
‘Frankly I spent much of the afternoon just limping about – in many ways it was all a bit of a nightmare. In my opinion I shouldn’t have played, particularly as the Charity Shield is not just a prestige pre-season affair, it’s a very important game, and a real pointer to the season ahead.
‘Parading the Cup to our fans before the game was nice, but as far as the game itself was concerned, they simply played us off the park. The 2–1 score in their favour certainly didn’t flatter them. The star of the show was undoubtedly Alan Ball – he ripped us apart. To be frank, they looked fitter than us. Bally played a blinder, and you couldn’t help noticing him in his fancy cut-away white boots – it was a real football education watching him!’
It was just like one big party down the Fulham Road prior to kick-off. To many fans, the game didn’t matter one iota, it was just an extension of the FA Cup-winning knees-up. Tony Power, realising the publicity potential of the fixture, had arranged for leading radio and TV DJ Ed ‘Stewpot’ Stewart to present Ossie with his Striker of the Year Award before kick-off. Never missing a trick, Tony had lined up Ed, knowing full well the Radio One star was a diehard Toffee.
Despite his and his side’s low-key display, Ossie enjoyed the afternoon. ‘I remember the heat, but I suppose having been out in Mexico for the World Cup, I should have been used to it. I didn’t have many opportunities to score. But I do remember one in particular. I was put through, I can’t remember by who, and let fly with my left foot. But unfortunately their keeper Gordon West made a fantastic save. I think Westy dined out for some months on that particular save! Hutch (Ian Hutchinson) played well, and it was fitting he should score our goal.’
Having left Striker to become Paul Raymond’s blue-eyed boy, the magazine was eventually swallowed up via various (to me) baffling buy-outs, so its main rival (in fact its only rival), Shoot, had the market all to itself once more. Following the amalgamations and mergers and general reorganisation, the ‘new’ company launched a serious weekly football newspaper called Inside Football, which was edited by a gentle bohemian character called Bob Dawbarn, who initially, until its demise, had also edited the comic-style Striker.
The eventual changes of ownership within the organisation that controlled Striker, Morgan Grampian, were both confusing and convoluted, but the upshot was that Banner Press became the publishers, later transmogrifying into Spotlite Publications.
Now, Tony Power forewarned me about all these chops and changes, following his decision to join up with Raymond. ‘You’ll love the new editor,’ he told me with a grin. ‘He’s like an ageing hippy.’
After meeting Bob, I got back to Tony and joked that he ‘looked just
like Charles Manson!’
There was no doubt that Bob, who died aged seventy-two some twelve years ago, was a genuine legend. Public-school educated (at Merchant Taylors), he was one of the original members of the Mick Mulligan jazz band, playing trombone. Its vocalist was another legend in the shape of George Melly.
However, Bob’s ambition was to be a journalist, and after a period as a court reporter (his shorthand speed had to be seen to be believed), he joined the Melody Maker in the mid-1950s. It was at ‘MM’ that he created a gossip column, ‘The Raver’, in which all his natural satirical instincts came to the fore.
This column soon established itself as a must-read for all the high and not-so-high-flyers in the jazz and burgeoning rock scene. His annual ‘Old Dawbarn’s Almanac’ was another innovative look at the music scene; its publication was eagerly awaited by readers, but often dreaded by the purveyors of popular music.
Stories abounded about Dawbarn, none of which were apocryphal. The most famous undoubtedly was in 1962 when a then unknown Bob Dylan ambled up, without warning, to the Melody Maker offices, and there was Bob embroiled in deadline day panic, confronting this American folk singer. As far as he was concerned, the number one priority was press day; so much to the chagrin of the young Dylan, he had him ejected!
Like several members of the cast of Inside Football, sartorially Bob was a wreck. In fact during his ‘MM’ years, there was an appeal for the ‘Buy Bob Dawbarn a New Raincoat Fund’. There was no doubt that the whole essence of Striker was a foreign land to him, but with Inside Football, he could express himself intellectually. So when in early March 1972 Striker was given the push by its owners and amalgamated with the more intellectually driven and upmarket Inside Football, Dawbarn was undoubtedly delighted. The demise of Striker also coincided with the apparent demise of that flamboyant Chelsea side of Cooke, Osgood and Hudson. By then, the game was changing; indeed it was about to enter a dark age of negativity, hooliganism and falling attendances.
Perhaps surprisingly, considering his ‘arty’ persona, Bob was an authentic football fanatic. During the1960s he had regularly turned out for the Melody Maker soccer team, lining up with the likes of Ray and Dave Davies of The Kinks and actor Tom Courtenay.
As for Tony Power, we drifted apart. In fact we met just a couple of times later during the 1970s, the last being when I was endeavouring to sell him a story for Men Only about the erotic antics of Joyce McKinney, the Mormon beauty queen!
I was told that by this time the twin devils of cocaine and booze had taken hold of his whole being and way of life, and according to his former assistant editor John Barraclough, he was ‘suffering from a dose of the clap’. Tony Power’s descent into depression and drugs encapsulated the era for so many people in so many ways; fun, hedonism, and innovation followed by the realisation of age as bodies and minds burnt out. Idealism was replaced by cynicism and then desperation, as untouchable youth lost its lustre forever.
NINE
1969-70 –
OSSIE HITS THE HIGHSPOTS
AND SHAMATEURISM IS EXPOSED
What a momentous season it turned out to be! But the early portents were not good, with just one victory garnered from the first nine games, and that was a scrappy 1–0 home success over a struggling Ipswich Town at Stamford Bridge, thanks to an Ian Hutchinson goal.
In many ways, the whole campaign really only came alive on 27 September when a crowd of over 46,000 saw Ossie and the boys outsmart Arsenal 3–0. This win was the start of a run of just two defeats from sixteen starts, one black day being at Elland Road in front of more than 57,000 fans where the old foe, Don Revie’s Leeds United, banged in five goals with just two in reply. An unbeaten period of nine games followed, and then perversely another 5–2 score in favour of the opposition when, on 28 March, eventual champions Everton ‘did a Leeds’ at Goodison Park. But these bare facts tell just a soupçon of the whole story, and that story was all about the FA Cup.
There has probably never been an FA Cup quite like it. It all began quietly enough with Birmingham City being dumped at the Bridge 3–0. It then got more than a bit edgy in round four with Burnley proving to be obdurate opposition. A home 2–2 draw and Turf Moor on a bleak January evening loomed for the replay. It was 1–1 after 90 minutes, but Chelsea found a second wind in extra time to advance 3–1.
As far as Osgood was concerned, the autumn of 1969 saw both his confidence and his form improve almost weekly. By December, my trips to his home in Windsor increased, and often he would drive me around the Berkshire countryside looking for a pub in his wife’s small Hillman Imp, listening to his car radio, which just a few weeks later always seemed to be playing the Edison Lighthouse number one ‘Love Grows’ – ‘Oh, but love grows where my Rosemary goes’. Ossie loved to sing those words, in obvious homage to his wife. Of course, the mind does play tricks as the disc wasn’t released until January 1970, but I’ll always associate that particular song with the great man. I can see him now, dressed in sweater and slacks, and telling me he must become more up-to-date by buying some ‘proper gear’, asking me about boutiques and shops and the like, joining in with Edison Lighthouse between sentences.
Having established a business-like, and in many ways friendly rapport with Tom Pink at Ford – after a sluggish beginning the money was starting to increase monthly – it was now imperative to build on this with other commercial deals.
By this time The Amateur Footballer magazine was prospering so much, both in terms of circulation and public exposure in the press, that I was finding it difficult to cope with both the business and editorial side of this now-established enterprise with my new role as football agent and business partner to Peter Osgood – there were simply not enough hours in the day!
Also, having lifted the lid on ‘shamateurism’ in the amateur game some months before, I was now fully involved in exposing the hypocrisy of a situation in which amateur footballers could ‘earn’ more than their professional counterparts in the lower leagues.
I had already made reference in the magazine to amateur players moving from club to club, dropping hints that somewhere in this maze of club disloyalty the old pounds and pennies sign was somewhere in the background. Then in the autumn of ’69, I really let fly, this time using television and the highly acclaimed sports journalist Ian Wooldridge to highlight the growing epidemic of ‘boot money’.
Wooldridge hosted a Sunday afternoon half-hour show on London Weekend TV, Sports Arena, which preceded the football highlights package The Big Match, hosted by Jimmy Hill.
The show was in a sense the moral mouthpiece of sport, concentrating on wrongs that should be righted as well as some of the more positive aspects of a whole raft of sports. On this particular September afternoon, half the programme was in essence a mini-documentary delving into the dark world of amateur football and illegal payments.
I had put this shamateurism story to one of the show’s producers, Tony McCarthy. After some subtle persuasion, he gave my idea the thumbs-up. So now it was simply a matter of finding some officials and players willing, to ‘blow the gaffe’ on film.
My next task was to write the script. Actually finding people prepared to appear on TV and denounce the whole system proved to be comparatively easy. At the same time I upped the coverage in The Amateur Footballer, and in order to try to get some form of balance, I phoned FA secretary Denis Follows. To say that our conversation was a non-event would be an understatement. He knew amateur players en masse were being paid; I knew they were being paid; in fact everyone in the game knew players were receiving money, but throughout our tense and at times bitter conversation, he struck rigidly to the status quo and vehemently denied it all!
The scene was then set for the filming – there was no video in 1969 – and club officials and players seemed, somewhat surprisingly, only too keen to tell all. As far as the players were concerned, the only proviso was that some demanded that their faces should be hidden: all very cloak-and-dagger!
The
show caused a stir in the FA corridors of power, but overall the response from the people that mattered, the honest and dedicated football club secretaries and the like, was positive. Rob Hughes – later to become The Times football correspondent and currently writing about the game for the International Herald Tribune – was the inquisitor in chief, and he asked me a few very pertinent questions, during which I replied that when contacting the Football Association I had encountered ‘a brick wall’.
Later, in The Amateur Footballer, I wrote a feature, ‘Is The Shamateurism Nut About To Be Cracked?’ on the whole episode, and it is interesting to read some of the reaction. For example, Tilbury secretary Geoff Paisley stated it was about time something was done, and he quoted from an article appearing in The Amateur Footballer written by that doyen of football writers David Miller, a man whose words graced the pages for many years of both the Daily Express and the Daily Telegraph.
Miller had written: ‘It is several months since the publication of the ’Chester Report, yet it seems that there is no move afoot to rationalise the situation in senior amateur football, where all but a handful of clubs are professional in everything but name. Abuse continues, but nothing is done.
‘Half the trouble is that many of the FA Council, who are responsible for implementing any changes, have connections either now or in the past, with the very clubs who break the rules, or with the leagues in which they play. In effect officials must therefore legislate against themselves, which is unlikely.’
Paisley commented: ‘I enjoyed the programme, and I would certainly like to see the FA take some action, but I honestly doubt it. The great pity was that no FA officials would appear to be interviewed.’
Well I had tried, but my requests fell on deaf ears. I think one of the main reasons for this was that, unlike the situation today, youth was not courted by seemingly every aspect of society. The grey men in the higher echelons of the FA regarded the likes of me, young, long-haired and – by their standards – unconventionally attired, with extreme suspicion. I was seen as a young troublemaker.
