Have
you ever pondered just how our society has evolved to the extent that Sunday
has been transformed from a day of inertia, when all forms of recreation were
stifled by the state-endorsed intolerance enshrined in anachronistic, extremist
Christian legislation, into the weekly festival of hedonistic, epicurean excess
it has become? Pubs across the land are as busy on Sunday afternoons for food
and football as they are on Friday nights it seems, not that I spend much time
carousing at my age.
Certainly
some of the credit for Britain throwing off the straitjacket of imposed
Reformation morality, to dance topless in bacchanalian liberation, must go to the 1988 Licensing
Act, which modified Sunday opening hours to the extent they changed from 12-2
and 7-10.30 to 12-3 and 7-10.30. An extra hour of bevvying may not have
been the revolutionary event that altered the fabric of the English Sabbath
forever, but it did serve as a kind of foot in the door, that made change
inevitable once another enormous cultural shift established itself on the
nation’s collective consciousness half a decade later. Casting one’s mind back to 1992, it seems that
the unequivocal narrative that repeatedly extols the greatness and perfection
of the Premier League was not accepted by all sections of the media. While the
Murdoch Empire crowed in hubristic glee at the fait accompli of the establishment of the Greed is Good League, as
Brian Glanville so memorably described it, others were more agnostic in their
response. However, in the spirit of sporting Social Darwinism, the eventual decisive victory of satellite
television in creating and, more importantly, establishing the hitherto
unimaginably financially successful
Premier League could only be toasted during Monday Night Football. Seeing off
your pint and heading home for a 4pm kick off on Sunday was seen as a vile
restraint of trade by licensed victuallers and Sky subscription dealers across
the nation.
The
curious anomaly of the dry Sunday afternoon was a relic of a bygone era of
Christian observance utterly out of step with the reality of late 20th century
life, which persisted until The Sunday Hours Licencing Act permitted all day
opening 7 days a week from 1995 onwards. Look at the timeline; 7 years since
the previous act, but only 3 since the Premier League was formed. Coincidence?
Not at all. This modification of the 1988 Act came as a result of pressure,
aided by sweetheart stories in News International’s publications, from both
those in the pub trade, who identified a potentially lucrative market in family
Sunday lunches and the retail sector, who had gained the legal right for shops
to open every day of the week via the 1994 Sunday Trading Act and saw a clear
potential link between the two areas of consumer consumption. The internet may
have hit city centre outlets hard, but twenty years ago, the social aspect of
shopping maintained a curious and influential hold over much of the populace. As
is ever the case when rapacious capitalists see an opportunity to earn a quick
buck, those who suffered were the workers. Employees in retail and attendant
industries, long before the iniquitous zero hours contracts became a
distressing, depressing reality, have long had conditions of employment imposed
on them that see no difference between, say, a Tuesday and a Sunday; no time
and a half or double time for weekend graft for the undervalued and often
non-unionised workers in the service sector. Remember that next time you feel
compelled to kick off with the person who forgets the Horseradish to go with
your roast beef.
In
our current era, where the mammoth Friday evening check-out queues at
supermarkets of the 1980s have largely been replaced by a Sunday snarl up in
the dairy products aisle, it seems difficult to recollect an earlier time when
the Day of Rest was precisely that. Prior to the famed game on ITV that ended
Spurs 2 Nottingham Forest 1 in October 1983, which ushered in the concept of
live domestic league and cup games on British television, the only football
you’d see on a Sunday would be international tournaments every couple of years.
I’m too young to remember the 1970 World Cup, though I distinctly remember
Holland’s losses in 74 and 78, as well as Panenka’s iconic penalty that won
Czechoslovakia a victory over West Germany in the 1976 European Championships, all
taking place on Sundays.
During
the 1974 Miners’ Strike, the crumbling Heath Government introduced a rolling
programme of power cuts across the country. As a result, a few clubs played games
on Sunday to circumvent the potential problems of either needing a generator or
kicking off early, by exploiting a kind of administrative sleight of hand that
meant spectators were not paying for entry, but for a programme, to circumvent
licensing restrictions. Despite encouraging crowds, these games were seen as
bizarre curiosities and, rather like the talkies in 1928 or guitar groups in
1962 according to Decca Records, there was no future in them. It didn’t appear
that way in Ireland, where since independence; games had always been played on
Sundays. Looking at the results in the paper on a Monday was a weekly highlight
in the mid-70s for a certain 10 year old supporter of Cork who lived in
Gateshead.
While
football declined the opportunity of investigating the possible benefits of the
great experiment further, other sports actively embraced the Sabbath as an
integral part of their calendar. Horse racing and greyhounds were prohibited,
on account of a blanket ban on gambling on Sundays, but motor racing only ever
took place on the Day of Rest. Rugby League, unlike the more Calvinistic 15 man
code, saw its entire fixture programme take place on a Sunday, bar the one game
each week which was moved back to the Saturday for live TV coverage. I’m sure
there’s a level of irony in that fact. Long before Sunday Grandstand became a regular feature, BBC2 would show an entire John
Player League 40 overs cricket game; a much loved competition that began in
1969 and lasted in one form or another until 2009. Indeed, the concept of a
“rest day” in test matches was abandoned also, as test venues put up the HOUSE
FULL signs for the first 4 days of all matches, as crowds flocked to the novel
surroundings of a sporting event on a Sunday.
Spare
a thought for the amateur sportsman back then. Sunday league football and
Sunday league cricket were an integral part of the sporting life of many in the
North East, and they remain so to this day. Football games kicked off at 10.00
so you could get to the bar for opening time and many cricket clubs managed to
secure exceptional licences that allowed drink to be served all afternoon. I
recall halcyon afternoons, attired in sweat soaked football gear, stretched out
near the boundary at Felling Cricket Club, supping pints of Exhibition and
watching Madan Lal win games single-handedly. It’s the nearest I’ve got to a Brideshead Revisited moment.
To
the average adult citizen in the 1980s, the very idea of not only pubs being
open, but domestic football games regularly taking place on Sunday afternoons,
seemed an unrealistic fantasy. Nostalgia often adds an air of innocence to our
recollections, but I can recall walking through the almost entirely deserted
centre of Newcastle on any Sunday afternoon in the late 1980s and early 1990s, when
a potential customer would be restricted to spending their hard earned on
either the range of wares on offer at Boots the Chemist by Grey’s Monument or
RS McColl’s newsagent’s at the top of Pilgrim Street. That was it, other than a
few dismal cafes near the Central Station, populated by the lonely, the marginalised, the
transient and the haunted. The city was predominantly silent and virtually
deserted.
Sunday
professional football was, of course, in its infancy back then as well. The
rarity of such an occurrence as a fixture change means it is easy to recall the
infrequent instances of games not taking place at 3pm on a Saturday. A
brace of losses to Liverpool (0-2 in November 84 and 1-4 in September 87), two
games against Manchester United, a goalless league fixture in November 88 and a
2-3 loss in the FA Cup fifth round in February 90, as well as a spectacular 4-0
hammering of West Ham in November 86 were the only televised Sunday games
played at SJP before the advent of Sky
TV’s takeover of the national game via the Premier League. In addition, there were
two derbies against sunderland that were subject to noon kick-offs on Police
advice; 1-1 in February 1990 and 1-0 in March 1992. Neither game was shown
live.
Keen
students of chronology will note Newcastle United were not in the top flight in
the Premier League’s debut season, hence they missed out on such delights as
hosting The Shamen miming to Ebeneezer
Goode, as they did at Highbury during the interval of Arsenal v Man
City. Not to be outdone by the new kids
on the block, ITV got in on the live football broadcasting act, by showing as
many Sunday afternoon games from League Division 1 as it was then called, as
they could feasibly manage. Obviously back then ITV was a selection of
autonomous companies, each one broadcasting to a defined audience; the
homogenized centralisation of the entire network these days would make such
bold scheduling impossible.
For
Newcastle United, who stormed to the title with Kevin Keegan at the helm in
1992/1993, this meant local broadcasters Tyne Tees moving home ties with
Swindon, Millwall, Derby, Birmingham, sunderland and Leicester for live
transmission. Strangely, the first 4 fixtures were all drawn, while the last 2
saw Magpie wins. Leicester resulted in a 7-1 victory on the day the league
trophy was presented; a magnificently joyous occasion. From 20 years distant, the
recollection I have is that the only grumbles about the intervention of
television were related to the fact that it was impossible to get a drink after
the game. Perhaps the feelgood factor and relative infrequence of fixture
changes minimised dissent.
As
regards the away fixtures, various ITV companies shifted games at Brentford,
sunderland, Barnsley, West Ham and Tranmere, for live transmission, resulting
in 3 wins, a draw and a defeat at Oakwell. Only that game and the one at Roker
Park were all ticket. For the others, it was pay on the gate. These live
broadcasts were a welcome novelty if you couldn’t afford or didn’t have the
inclination to travel. From a personal point of view, ever since then I’ve not
been able to listen to a game on the radio. The not knowing exactly how play is
developing, regardless of the competence or otherwise of the commentator, is
simply too frustrating and nerve wracking. The world changes I suppose, which
is why I “follow” the action on line or on Twitter
if I can’t see live pictures these days.
Looking
back from more than two decades distant, it seems incredible that nearly a dozen
Newcastle games were broadcast on Sunday afternoon, all free to air; could you
imagine that now? Frankly, I can’t remember the last time the Magpies appeared
on terrestrial television. The FA Cup 6th round away to Chelsea in
2006 perhaps? During the season following NUFC’s promotion, the
anachronism encapsulated by Sunday pub closing could clearly be seen after home
games against Blackburn and Liverpool by the presence of gangs of blokes
hanging around in city centre pub doorways, waiting for opening time and Sky’s
second showing of that afternoon’s game. For the away games, it was a case of
being locked in, if you know where to go, or being locked out if you didn’t. I
distinctly remember queues similar to those seen at the Gallowgate turnstiles
outside every pub on the Haymarket, waiting for access to the re-run of Andy
Cole’s famed hat trick in the 3-0 demolition of Liverpool in November 1993. As
I said earlier, bearing in mind such enthusiasm from potential punters and the
chance for turning a dollar by packing the pubs for the live showing of games,
it would be foolish to discount to influence of Rupert Murdoch on the British
political establishment in terms of providing a vastly increased market for his
product, in the days before domestic satellite and cable television was the
norm, if not compulsory. Nowadays, everyone has access to Sky Sports; hell I’ve
got it for free on my phone. However, what has been introduced into the British
weekend experience, from the 1995 relaxation of licensing hours, is the concept
of going to the pub on a Sunday afternoon to watch the Sky game, whoever may be
playing. Mates of mine, who sacked off
SJP years ago, even before Ashley assumed ownership in some instances, never
miss a Super Sunday afternoon swallow down the local.
As
far as I’m concerned, this is clearest indication I can think of which
demonstrates the process of transformation of large numbers of those interested
in football from being dedicated fans to interested observers. Consumption has
checkmated passion and the ubiquity of the televised product must be one of the
main causes. If you’re so inclined, there are at least 3 and sometimes 4 live
games, domestic and European, broadcast every Sunday. In one baffling (to me at
least) development, my student son and his housemates, from a variety of
locations, supporting a range of teams, have a regular Sunday evening get
together over a takeaway to watch La Liga. The blokes in their late teens and
early 20s may not be in Sid Lowe or Guillem Balague’s league, but they know
more about Spanish football than I would have thought possible for any
undergraduate resident of Headingley. While family connections in Euskal Herria
mean that my lad is a passionate supporter of Athletic Club, his pals have
looser bonds with their teams of choice. Barca. Real. Atleti even. There is an
oft stated, but vague and nebulous promise that they’ll all take in a game at Camp
Nou or Santiago Bernebeu at some point in the future. For now, their Sunday
gatherings are primarily social rather than sporting events. A time to observe
rather than actively support.
Contrast the frat boy
pizza party with the first Sunday I spent at a game this season. August 9th 2015. First game of the season at St James Park;
that palpable sense of anticipation and optimism, mixed in with an element of
apprehension and an unhealthy dollop of cynicism that hung like a cloud over
the city centre on the walk up to the ground. The quickening of the pulse as the teams
emerged. Sounds of the crowd. Louder than the home team deserves. A rip-roaring
2-2 against Southampton, with 50,000 plus in attendance. The vast majority
passionate in their support. Running the gamut of emotions as the game swung
from one side to the other, before ending even. Outside the ground, the pattern
of ordinary city life may have continued unabated, Shops, restaurants and bars
all doing a roaring trade. Chinese buffets on Stowell Street, thronged to the
doors by fashionably attired families, seeking exotic comestibles after a gruelling
morning’s retail therapy, but Newcastle is a football city.
Full time, I walk away
from the ground and towards The Bodega for a pint. I see a middle aged Southampton
fan in their away shirt striding down Westgate Road, presumably on the way to
the station. I offer my hand and he shakes it.
“Blinding game fella. All
the best for the rest of the season.”
“You too pal. Safe
journey.”
Regardless of the commercialisation
and commodification of a sport that dominates most news sources all day, every
day, there are still moments of joy and beauty to be found in the simple
pleasure of supporting your team, whatever day of the week it may be.
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