The Archive

Tony Christie describes an odd encounter at a public exhibition of the FA Cup

It was in the North Country that I encountered him. At Doctor Pit Welfare Park, Bedlington, on a night when the darkening sky sat heavy on the ancient chimneys and the air was silent save for the occasional deranged hoot from a flock of Northern League urchins which had alighted in the blackness behind the away dug-out. Before a silken banner of richest cerulian blue and ivory embroidered with the runic slogan “AXA”, upon a velvet cloth there sat a great chalice of burnished silver.

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Davy Millar looks at  examples of football becoming caught up in the politics of Northern Ireland

There are those who will argue that there should be a firm demarcation line between the worlds of sport and politics. They believe that the average altruistic politico is ill-prepared to survive contact with the rampant megalomania, corruption, cynicism, ex­ploitation and downright thuggery of modern professional sport. Or have I got it the wrong way round? It’s hard to tell these days.

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Like so many players, Neil Wills made no provision for his retirement. Now it's got him worrying about death

According to Marianne Faithfull, it was at the age of 37 that Lucy Jordan realised she would never ride through Paris in a sports car with the warm wind in her hair. According to my brother Clive, he was a mere two years older than that when he realised that if he didn’t stop playing football, his hamstrings would exp­lode. This terrified me be­cause hitherto I had always assumed I would play football for ever. I suddenly realised that – all genetics being equal – at 32 I probably only had seven years to go. For the first time in my life, I faced the grisly prospect of retirement.

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Steve Field remembers the awesomely ramshackle South Bank at Molineux

I think it was the hero’s driving-instructor father in Gregory’s Girl who enthused over the advantages of learning to drive in a new town. He might have been right, too, but it’s bloody awful growing up in one. They are soulless and sterile, and basic demographics dictate that their football teams are a long way down the evolutionary scale. If you want anything remotely resembling a top match you are obliged to travel to the nearest proper town. In my case, Wolverhampton.

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The relaxation of restrictions post-Bosman has seen clubs across Europe experimenting with bulk importation of foreigners. Some have got their fingers burned, but Spain's Celta Vigo are a surprising success story. Phil Ball sizes them up

As you drive on west from the lush dairy pastures of Asturias in the north of Spain, the road sign that greets you with “Welcome to Galicia” seems like some kind of joke. Ahead stretches a bleak and barren countryside, about as welcoming as the blasted heath where Macbeth met his witches. The settings were not lost on Luis Buñuel, who shot two particularly depressing films using the region as back­drop. No phony weather sets were needed in a region that boasts an average of 320 days of rain a year, plus swirling mists, howling winds and a western seaboard called “The coast of death”. As if all that weren’t enough, General Fran­co himself was born a Gallego, in the ugly little town of Ferrol, and the region, unsurprisingly, is not exactly renowned for its ultra-liberal persuasions.

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