Monday Monday, Can’t Trust That Day…

April 12, 2010April 12, 2010 / Alan / 15 Comments

It’s hard to get past that moment, round and round, an endless loop tape in my head. Looking down from behind the goal, the scene populated by characters who hit their marks, a denouement scripted by fate and played out in slow motion. Dawson slips and the net is open. In reality it passed in less than a second but time enough elapsed, from the losing of grip to opponent’s roar, for the entire story to play out in my mind. Plucky underdogs had come this far through a combination of disciplined effort and an off-colour Spurs performance, our endeavours blunted by a lack of full fitness and a stodgy surface. Pompey had more of the ball than we would wish but apart from a few scares, nothing that Gomes, Bassong and Dawson couldn’t handle. Then our brave indomitable captain, as ever taking responsibility in the danger area, alert to the danger, moved to snuff it out and secure safety. He took an age to slip, limbs splayed like a steeplechaser falling after Beecher’s, eyes on the ball and still in his determination trying, desperately, hopelessly, trying to stop the ball rolling onwards.

Someone was due a major embarrassment over the weekend because of that pitch, but of all the people I wish it were not Michael Dawson. Destined to be shown endlessly on TV and Road to Wembley DVD’s, maybe even the ultimate indignity of What Happened Next? on a Question of Sport, no one is less deserving of being immortalised so. They all have a place in my hearts, but our captain epitomizes the spirit and commitment that Tottenham need. He’s an example for the whole side, with a single-minded focus on denying the opposition in the box, fierce concentration and above all he makes the most of his talent. Not the most gifted, he nevertheless plays to his strengths and I would rather have all of Daws than most of more naturally gifted footballers.

In my last piece I spoke of the Semi-final Moment, the time when in every semi-final, the tide of optimism turns to be replaced by a realisation that defeat is possible. Not likely necessarily, just an option. For me it came around the usual time, 15 or 20 minutes in, when Gomes easily saved a deflected shot. Remember this is about emotion not sober analysis. It was a reminder that although we had the better side and were on top at the time, all it took was one deflection, slice of good fortune or slight error in an otherwise strong position. But it was another, later incident, that a sent a cold shiver down my spine. It was around 70 minutes or so, we had a spell of superiority that resulted in a few near misses and several corners. Pompey moved up field but Gomes saved, as he did so often and with such authority all match. Swiftly he moved to distribute the ball from hand to launch a counter attack.

Nothing. No one wanted the ball. Trotting slowly upfield with backs turned towards their keeper, the message could not have been more clear. We were knackered. More than that, nobody wished to take on the responsibility of overcoming the dual effects of weary legs and formidably organised opponents, who spread out across the pitch and not only pressed and harried but also tellingly did not allow our wide men to reach the byline. I felt physically sick for the rest to the match.

To be debilitated by injury is a fact, not an excuse, so there will always be the what-ifs of our potential of the fully fit squad. However, although the cloying surface didn’t help, we made it look like quicksand. There was so much more that we could have done. Defoe never looked sharp whereas Pav was much brighter as soon as he came on and should have started. Corluka had gone well before extra time, while the match passed Hud by almost completely. Injuries obviously reduce pace and stamina but they also sow seeds of doubt in the minds of the suffering players. A half yard slower here, a fraction of second’s delay with a decision there, and your man is off form. For example, well before the end, Corluka, whose legs move anyway as if stuck in quick drying cement, hung back a couple of yards in the defensive line so by compensating for his lack of speed he gave Pompey’s forwards more room.

Huddlestone suffered the most. Apart from his near match-winning first half left footer, he was hugely disappointing yesterday. Just as he has reached the point where his value to the side is universally appreciated, he disappears. We want him to be available, to move it on, to sweep the passes and sometimes to lumber forward into the danger areas at the edge of the box. All this was missing. The fact is, whether it is the conditions on the pitch or in the mind, players have to adjust. There was enough time out there. Hud did not have to launch himself into tackles – if you know your footing is bad then stay upright and don’t slide in. More harmful for our hopes was that the surface took all the pace from the pass, yet Hud, master passer, could have taken this into account.

Modric played in fits and starts. His movement was better but finishing poor. He did well enough but only in short spells, then faded as he presumably took a breather. He did OK but we needed better. Moreover, he did not link well with Gareth Bale. This left side is of course our most potent attacking weapon, yet Bale cannot do it all on his own, although goodness he tried hard enough towards the end when his effort and desire could not be faulted. Most of our effective attacking came from him and though not at his best he deserves praise, but he needs some help. He needs options as he goes forward, targets in the box and someone to play one-twos with. Luka didn’t offer that frequently enough. To compound the problem, the same thing happened on the other wing where Bentley and Corluka behaved as if they had never been introduced. No combination play considerably reduced Bentley’s effectiveness because he can’t beat a man.

This was the decisive tactical element of the game. We seldom reached the byline and therefore delivered a series of innocuous crosses from deep, further and further out as the game progressed. Bentley also failed to put over a decent corner. Pompey stayed wide in midfield and made it more difficult. It was decisive because Harry had placed his faith in Peter Crouch. You could see why, towering as he did several inches above their tallest defender, but with lousy service for most of the afternoon, he, and we, got nowhere. Rocha was in his element. Not the greatest, he’s nevertheless a shrewd operator. He does not give ground in the box when challenged, so with his good upper body strength he did just enough to put Crouchie off. And let’s be honest, it doesn’t take a lot to put him off. Despite all of this, he had the chances to win this game and blew it. I’ve remarked before that what frustrates me most about him is that even when he rises high to win the ball he doesn’t do enough with it, but Wembley was not the time to provide further evidence for my theory. On my predictive text, ‘Crouch’ comes up as ‘crotch’. That says it all for me.

Another word of praise for Gomes – did everything that was asked of him and saved us on the few occasions that Pompey broke through.

At the finish the players sought the sanctuary of the dressing room with indecent haste but I was still there, as were others. They could have, should have come a little closer. We win and lose together, and a moment’s acknowledgement would have been kind. On the tube home, one of their fans, after starting to tease my daughter, derisively asked me how money I had wasted. ‘Nothing’, I replied, ‘Being there is what matters.’ This seemed to satisfy him so he and his mates resumed their verbal fisticuffs with a couple of other Spurs fans that we had inadvertently interrupted. I wish Pompey fans well, genuinely so and despite this brutish, racist quartet, they are pleasant, loyal and have had their club destroyed by the worst kind of owners. Their injury list was far worse than ours, but with admittedly limited ambitions, they performed admirably and their supporters will be justifiably proud of them this morning. Their club will survive because of the passion of their fans, who made so much noise yesterday, and I hope they do.

With a rested Arsenal on Wednesday and Man City rampant, suddenly this momentous week is in danger of turning rapidly into one of doom. Maybe that’s a reflection of my gloomy frame of mind this morning. We were poor but had more than enough chances to win. But nagging away is a word that I threatened readers with on a regular basis earlier in the season,one which has disappeared from TOMM of late: resilience. Injuries, poor tactics, mistaken team selection, all are factors, but ultimately I fear that we were done for by the absence of mental strength in the biggest match this team has so far faced. With Arsenal, Chelsea, Man Utd and the fight for Europe head, a bad Monday does not not auger well for the next 7 days.

Semifinals. Suffering or Smiling? Love Them or Hate Them?

April 9, 2010April 9, 2010 / Alan / 8 Comments

It is said that guilt and fatalism are intrinsic elements of Jewish culture. I may have repudiated most of the outward signs of my heritage but in this one fundamental aspect I celebrate and sustain my origins by watching Tottenham Hotspur. The experiences of generations of a proud, oppressed and wandering people have distilled themselves into this single phenomenon. I think of it as one of civilisation’s crowning achievements. Moments of pleasure and enjoyment are swiftly and decisively countered by waves of doubt washing over me. Football as a metaphor for life. Three up with five minutes to go but disaster lurks whenever the ball enters our half. And I don’t even have a bowl of tsimmus waiting for me when I get home.

And that’s just an ordinary match. Semi-finals represent torture at their most refined form, an ordeal worse than being stretched on the rack, watching Arsenal win the League twice at the Lane or even viewing the latest Halifax ad. No other event in the world of sport contains a capacity simultaneously for blinding elation and total destruction. There are two main elements in the volatile and toxic mix. One, reaching a semi-final represents no reward in itself, winning is everything. Second, no matter what the weather, the form book or the line-up, the day always begins with a heady, absurd wave of optimism. Some reach for the emotional props like ‘it’s a one-off’, ‘we can beat anyone on our day’ or, latterly for anyone playing the Sky four, ‘their main priorities lie elsewhere’. Truth lurks here but logic has little bearing come semi-final morning. Wembley and blind unreasoning optimism fill our senses and there is no escape from the sirens’ rapture.

In the past, Herculean tasks were presented as obstacles to sacred bliss, such as rising at 4am, round trips of several hundred miles, jam-packed terraces and no food supply, not to mention the Villa Park toilets. These labours were brushed aside, merely part and parcel of our ritual devotion. Travelling to the grounds was one of the great pleasures of being a fan that have been lost since Wembley became the permanent venue. Not only did Wembley retain its mystique and kudos, a privilege earned by victory at the highest level, the journey also allowed us to take over other grounds for a day and heightened the sense of anticipation once the destination had been reached. We looked out for navy blue and white on the motorway and waved greetings to total strangers, united with a single purpose. The excitement was ridiculous – look, another Spurs fan, on the way to the game! Hardly a coincidence when you think about it, but remember, logic has no place here. In later years, with a more expensive (company) car we glided past the chugging jalopies and straining vans, loaded with 8 or 10 people in the back. We jeered at the limo, broken down in the fast lane. Teach them to go posh, not on a day like today, this isn’t a day out, this is about being there, being there for the win.

Before kick-off, there was another distinctive feature of the semi-finals – the noise. In those days, over 90% of the tickets went to fans so we would populate virtually half the ground. Spurs fans being Spurs fans, often it would be more as we will always find a way… In contrast, finalists would receive as few as 20,000 tickets each with the majority going to the ‘football family’. Having a large family is typically a mixed blessing and if they wanted to stay in touch, they could have sent a bloody Christmas card and leave the tickets to the rest of us.

Then comes the Semi-final Moment, the truly distinctive feature of all semis. It arrives usually at some point in the first half but the specific instant varies according each individual. It remains as a law of nature, immutable and unchanging as the rising and setting of the sun. The Semi-final Moment comes when the thought enters your head that we could lose. For me it’s usually about 20 minutes in, when the frantic opening skirmishes are over and the match settles into some sort of pattern, although it does not matter if we are on top or under the cosh, for this is not about reality or an analysis that we will lose, it’s the mere concept of defeat, inconceivable until the Moment. The euphoria dissipates and the realisation seeps into the mind. Gone is the joy and anticipation, to be replaced by gut-wrenching, stomach-churning sickening fear that proceeds to occupy body and mind for the remainder of the match. We’ve come this far yet might not make it. Only with the final whistle comes blessed relief.

Old Trafford, 2001, the perfect example. Not a vintage season by any means, we nevertheless stagger through to the semis, along the way carelessly jettisoning the man who got us there. But no one liked ‘Man in the Raincoat’ and Hoddle’s appearance before the match was greeted as that of the new Messiah. As much as we sang, United turned up the PA to drown it out. Unthinkable that the fans can have their day, untroubled and without interference. I daresay the PA is switched off as soon as the TV coverage begins, usually with the words ‘great’ and ‘atmosphere’ in the commentator’s carefully scripted impromptu opening remarks.

Getting there presented a challenge in itself. Some friends of mine had recently been to Old Trafford with West Ham and they said how easy the coach journey had been. The Hammers put on free coaches for their fans as a reward for loyal support: that wasn’t likely with the Spurs board but it was cheap so I booked up for me and my two children, then in their early teens, their first semi-final. My friends said that each of their coaches was numbered and lined up round Upton Park at the appointed time, so find your coach and you were off. But this is Spurs, and we are loyal fans…so we rise at 4am, drive 30 miles to the Lane and join the orderly queue at 6.30. Then 2 hours of bedlam. The coaches appeared at various intervals and stopped at random points on the High Road. The two police officers had no idea what was happening and it became a free for all. Tempers understandably frayed as this simple operation became what was in one sense a farce but actually was decidedly dangerous for the many children present, including mine. Eventually we forced our way onto a coach that happened to pull up where were standing, and a few kind souls helped my offspring to the head of the scrum. I make light of it but it was once again an insult to loyal fans, this was how we were treated once they had our cash.

But that’s all forgotten come kick-off, underdogs against the old enemy. Then something unspeakable happened. We scored. Docherty with a bumbling, probably deflected shot. And there you have it. The Semi-final Moment. As sure as day turns into night, along it came, a few minutes after the goal. Staring us in the face, the possibility of winning hastens the concept of defeat. In this case, more than a possibility as it turned out. The heroic efforts of the fans who roared them on were sadly unmatched by the players, a single goal margin but well beaten. And on the way back, two of our coach party failed to return. We had to wait, and as the excitement of the match disappeared, so did all the other coaches in the car park, leaving us in splendid isolation before we eventually set off. Stuck now in the heaviest traffic in Manchester and perfectly timed to reach the London-bound regular Sunday evening M1 queue that crawled from Luton, we reached the Lane at well past midnight. With another 30 miles in the car, I finally got home 22 hours after setting off. I overheard the kid in the seat next to me frantically ringing his dad, who refused to come out to the Lane to pick him up at this ungodly hour. ‘This is your lucky day’, I said. It may not have been up until then, but as luck would have it, he had chosen to sit next to the one bloke in the ground who lived in the same Kent town as he did. It added another 20 minutes but what the hell. When I was his age, I would have set off for Manchester with only the vaguest plan about getting home.

The football in semi-finals is typically of low quality and disappears quickly from the memory, whereas the atmosphere and tension is indelibly seared into the brain for all time. The 81′ game against Wolves at Hillsborough was my first FA Cup semi-final. These were the days of the football special. Rolling stock last pulled by Stevenson’s rocket was hauled out of mothballs, the exterior as brown as the stains on the seats. All toilet paper was hurled out of the window before Watford junction. The West Ham crew waiting in the Euston ticket hall when we returned. Ah, those were the days.

We were the better team on the day and should have won but for a highly disputed penalty awarded against Glenn Hoddle for a tackle on Kenny Hibbett. It was one of those that even from my vantage point at the other end of the ground betrayed the classic hallmark of a good tackle – Hoddle slid in and the ball was well away from the opponent before he fell. The referee was Clive Thomas, a good ref undone by his inflated sense of self-importance. He loved the limelight and made Graham Poll look like a trappist monk in comparison. A contemporary match report says the game was clearly going to end up as stalemate in extra time but for me this was my first experience of the fear, every time the ball came close to our box.

It’s only now that I know that fear was a legitimate emotion on that day, not because of Andy Gray and Maxie Miller fighting desperately for each cross, sparks flying as these two formidably committed combatants slugged it out, but because of the packed terrace. For this was Hillsborough and the Leppings Lane end. During the course of the match I was pushed down from the middle side to close to the front, where your feet are below pitch level. Latecomers had already been taken along the pitch perimeter to other less crowded parts of the ground. It was the biggest crush I have ever experienced but I never felt in any danger. Far from it, at the time it epitomised that glorious elation of being part of a mass of fans, a single entity as much a part of the spectacle as any player. In my professional world, I was once trained as part of the disaster response team for a London authority. The trainer had worked with survivors of the Bradford fire and Hillsborough, and confirmed that on that day Spurs fans could have been enveloped in catastrophe. It was that close. If those fans had stayed in the end…who knows?

At the time, no one knew, and so the emotions at the replay could not have been more contrasting. Taking over the North Bank at Highbury was the perfect setting, but don’t forget that as this was on the Wednesday following the first match, it was home late from Sheffield then up at the crack of dawn to get to the Lane, queues looping round the block to buy the replay tickets on Sunday morning. We had it hard in those days. And to think you were complaining about the wait on the net to get onto ticketmaster. As the exception that proves the rule, we played very well and were always going to win. Crooks’ second was a gem, a looping arced pass from Hoddle, into his stride perfectly, struck with a fraction of backspin that made it hold up just right. Villa banged in a long range third and we baited ‘Hibbett, Hibbett what’s the score?’ Great fun.

Then two trips to Villa Park, first in ’82 when we made hard work of finishing off Leicester, who obliged in the end with a crazy 20 yard own goal, and then in 87 with a straightforward win versus lowly and injury hit Watford. Sound familiar in any way…? Football is a blessed escape from the real world but in ’82 there was no relief. As we drove up the M1 on a blissful sunny day, hot air balloons on the horizon, full of hope and expectation, we listened to the Commons debate on going to war in the Falklands. Part semi-final, part farewell to the magnificent Ossie Ardilles, one of theirs yet one of our own. We cared for and cherished him, yet now a goodbye was forced upon us. He played well and left the field to an ovation, his mind on other matters. In the end we had the chance to see him once more in our colours.

I watched the Everton and Newcastle matches in ’95 and ’99 on television. These were during my dark ages, where famine and pestilence raged across the land and darkness cast its shadow upon the land. In other words, the kids were young and my wife went out to work on a Saturday. Both poor games, dull dull dull.

Which leaves the best until last. The Arsenal match at Wembley was a huge deal at the time, hard to believe now but a major precedent. It was also the first time the two great rivals had met at that stage despite many years of battles (I think- haven’t checked and I’ve learned over the months of blogging not to do that…!). The FA were clearly disoriented. They not only created a family enclosure, with discounts for kids, they put it in the prime seats on the halfway line. To show how times have changed, these are the equivalent of the club Wembley block opposite the cameras, the ones that are embarrassingly empty for the first ten minutes of the second half. If the cup had been awarded, we would have been one of those fans who lean forward to congratulate the players as they mount the steps to the Royal box and ruin their moment of the ages by giving them a silly hat.

So the scene was set, and one man was set to take centre stage. Gascoigne was not fully fit but had to play. The free kick, well, you’ve heard about it, seen it, loved it. It was an outrageous piece of chutzpah to step up. The ball left his foot, went on, and up, and on, and up, and on and up into the roof of the goal. I have shivers right now just describing that moment. The Bloke Behind Me screamed, ‘Stupid sod, he’s not going to shoot from there’, the last syllable drowned in the noise as the ball hit the net. Gazza ran towards us and leapt into the air with unconfined, heartfelt joy and we roared our approval, oh, the sound we made. Years of being second best, it came from deep down, spilling out in cathartic bedlam.

A fine performance all round that day from a determined, motivated team, 2 more from Lineker and unselfish hard work from Paul Allen. A perfect day. Spoiled the following year, when OF COURSE after all those years they had another go and won. I genuinely cannot remember any of the game, just feeling so flat on the way home. But in the end, nothing could take away an iota of the joy of ’91. Let’s hope you and I will be celebrating not suffering come Sunday evening.

Monday Meanderings. Bit Like Our Defence, Really.

April 5, 2010 / Alan / 10 Comments

It’s a long way to Sunderland and this was one match too far for Spurs’ injury-depleted squad. For the first time really, through an increasingly dodgy stream, I longed for the might-have-beens who spend (I hope) 24 hours a day tethered to a treatment table. In reality, several of them, like Woodgate, are so used to this, they sit around moping, and also dreaming of what might have been. He’s been jetting off to Europe, the States and Australia, as if his parents had bought him a round the world ticket for his gap year. But I’d wager the two Cadbury’s Twirl eggs that are sitting on the table in front of me right now, that I might actually have for breakfast and be done with them, that he would have preferred that drag up north in the rain. Soft beach sand or slimy slide-tackle mud under his backside? He’s aching for the latter.

No complaints on the day. Sunderland deserved their victory, although bless ’em, we Spurs salute their heroic efforts in trying to throw it all away, with the misses, the penalties. And Anton, thanks for that, that’s Strictly Come Dancing that I would pay money to see, but in a comedy club…that wasn’t what you meant it, was it? TOMM has nothing against Bent, as regular readers will know. In fact, we have complained about that nasty nasty man with a twitch who said those horrible things about you. And you have nothing against the club, or so you said in the MOTD interview. But that’s a bit of a porky, eh Darren, come on now. I knew you were keen to move on but never comprehended the bitterness that lay just below the surface, masked by that wide nervous grin. Let it all out, son, let it out, find your inner child and return to the days of comfort in the womb. I’m pleased that we could be a small part of your therapeutic catharsis, but actually I’ve been at the Lane for over 40 years and I know about players getting stick, and you didn’t. Polite grumbling was about the size of it. Just so you know.

We never got going, never held possession for long enough. Puzzled expressions and fatalistic shrugs were the order of the day. If JD had been fully fit then I would have played him for the whole match, but I suspect he isn’t. Crouch and Pav would have kept the Sunderland back four occupied and made them defend 5 yards deeper, then we would have had more room. Those long arms and legs kept us going, so thank you Gomes, again. Just like Twizzle. One for the kids there.

Ultimately, we paid the price for the injuries. Fact is, we have done wonders to survive this far and so healthily with the best part of a team out of action. Of Saturday’s back four, all are decent players who I am delighted to have at the club. None are currently first choice for their position. Kaboul is our 5th choice centre half, playing alongside the guy who is fourth in line and on the other side is a boy making his second start. He’s a fine prospect, but you probably read his comments on the official site earlier this week about until recently, the closest he got to Crouch and Defoe was on Football Manager. We can’t expect too much, perhaps we have been spoiled until now. Young men who haven’t played together before. Is this the time to mention that an international defender was in the stands? He may not have made the difference, but once again I’m banging on about what was the point, in this season of all of them.

Above all, there was no experienced head at the back to guide, encourage, abuse, whatever it takes to get them in the right place at the right time. The absentee Michael Dawson’s reputation grew even larger. He’s been playing extremely well but his efforts as leader and motivator were truly evident in their absence on Saturday. Those of us privileged to see close up in the flesh his fierce concentration and total commitment to the cause needed little reminding of what he has brought to the team since his return, but my goodness me how we missed him. Please get better for Sunday, Daws.

Still a time for optimism. No gloom with a semi-final ahead of us this week, time to enjoy being a Spurs fan despite Saturday’s result. Deep down, you knew we would come a cropper one day, eh? The thing is, we’ve done so well to be where we are with a team or so in the physio’s room. That talent and determination was not there at the start of the season. We’re doing OK.

Transfer Gossip – That’s Forty Years Old. TOMM Competition Results!

April 1, 2010 / Alan / 3 Comments

Once more TOMM is at the cutting, some say leading, edge of the heart of the watershed of the coalface. Our competition to win a copy of the new book from All The Action No Plot blogger Michael Lacquiere http://www.allactionnoplot.com/ is now closed. The questions were all about would-have-been cult heroes, if only they had joined us, or to put it another way, transfer gossip that is between thirty and forty years old. You don’t need all those other rumour-mongering sites, just stick with me for accurate information, cross-checked from at least two different impeccable sources, if not quite up to date….god, you’re demanding, you can’t have everything, you know.

Question 1. A bona fide stone cold hero for country and club, in the mid 60s he could not wait to join Spurs and get away from the London team with which he will forever be associated. But his board said ‘no’ and punished him by keeping his wages down. Bobby Moore.

Synonymous these days with West Ham, Moore was keen to join Spurs in the mid 60s. The Hammers’ board had other ideas and refused his transfer request. The World Cup was looming and their trump card was that if there was any problem with his registration as a player, he might not be eligible for the England team. In those days, only a few years after the abolition of the minimum wage, the clubs held much greater power over players than is the case today, post-Bosman. Now, a player can let his contract expire and move on but back then, clubs still held the registration until a transfer has been negotiated. Whatever happened with the contract, Moore remained at Upton Park and for some time was not treated particularly well there, by the board at least, although fans the world over recognised him for what he was, one of the finest defenders the game has ever seen.

Question 2. This saintly hero was rumoured to be on his way for a couple of years and even the bloke behind me confirmed the deal. His style was perfect for Spurs but then his fiancée said she didn’t want to come to London, so he stayed a one club man on the south coast. All I can is, I hope she was worth it. Matt Le Tissier.

Not much more to add really, except he would have been welcomed as Le God in north London and that everyone on the terraces just knew his signing was only a matter of time. What is it about London? Would three years in, say, Hampstead, Highgate, Cuffley or Barnet have equalled the sin and shame of Dante’s Third Circle of Hell? Sounds more like Southampton to me. Each to her own, and Matt’s a good egg to be that devoted to his relationship. Whatever happened to her?

Question 3. This man achieved iconic status in the 70s but for one of our bitter rivals. Medicals completed, he was on the point of joining us when one of the cult heroes featured in the book pinched him at the last moment. See how it all fits together? Charlie George.

This is the one that I would not have believed, never mind answered correctly, because George was the quintessential Arsenal cult hero. Long hair, socks rolled down, hugely skilful but hardly a 90 minute man, cup final goalscorer, he was and is adored by the Highbury faithful. And the people in the corporate circle, the ones who missed the first Barca goal last night because they were still stuffing their faces, have probably read about him. Talking about the circles of hell….

Anyway, I was around at the time, of course, and don’t remember it at all. I came across it recently in a Rothman’s Year Book for ’76 but even then I had to check it, and turned up an interview with Dave Mackay, who said that the deal had got as far as a medical when he stepped in at the last minute. George never really wanted to join us, but Terry Neill persuaded him – almost. He jumped at the chance to go to Derby.

Thanks to everyone who entered – much appreciated. And now the moment you have been waiting for!! Cue drum roll, the winner is (long pause a la X-Factor to rack up the tension artificially) – Marion Hart. Congratulations!