Where's World Cup Willie When You Need Him?
My dad tells me that my love of football began at the age of 3, when in an act which would nowadays be construed as child cruelty, he plonked me down in front of the old bakelite telly to watch the 1966 cup final between Sheffield Wednesday and Everton. (Don't need to identify it as the FA Cup - the cup final's the cup final, innit?)Anyway, apparently, the Owls got off to a flying start and were 1-0 up inside the first four minutes. Jim McCalliog had a pot-shot at goal and it took a wicked deflection off the England left back, Ray Wilson. For Everton, Mike Trebilcock had replaced then-folk-hero Fred Pickering in the line up. Mike had his greatest game ever, justifying his astronomical £20,000 transfer fee from Plymouth by scoring two goals as the Toffees romped home to a win. Sam Ellis, David Ford and Ron Springett were all also heavily involved in what was described as one of the most dramatic finals ever to be staged at Wembley.
I probably just sat there and dribbled saliva. But experiences like this across the country undoubtedly created a love of the game in most of the 40-somethings who are the main demographic for live matches nowadays.
I heard a skit on the radio this week: one of those crass 'this is what was happenning today in the 1960s' (probably made by a 20-year-old producer who assumes dinosaurs roamed the earth at that time) in which it was announced with incredulity that the most popular boys' and girls' names were David and Susan respectively.
Imagine that.
And of course it made me think:
Where are all the players with names like that nowadays? They probably aren't allowed anywhere near football clubs. Picture the scenario where a failed triallist is called in to be released: 'Sorry son, you're a great player but we can't have anyone whose name is not derived from Creole Patois in the team now.'
Although the Brazilian Fred is a notable exception to this rule, it does seem nowadays that you are only likely to get a place in the starting 11 if your name is Delorian or Chlyamidia or something. You can hardly imagine Mike Trebilcock selling loads of replica shirts, can you?
And what about team names themselves? Imagine calling one of the newer sporting franchises The Owls or The Toffees!? Right now, some executive somewhere is probably dreaming up a rebranding of Portsmouth that involves them being called Portsmouth Pirates or something. Look at what a ponced-up mess they've made of rugby league. Catalan Dragons my arse, as Jim Royle would no doubt opine.
The world has officially gone mad.
And this madness has now extended to the way in which we are marketing ourselves for the upcoming World Cup and Olympics. I mean, look at the figures above. It's no surprise that someone has started a mock-Twitter page designed to take the mick out of these pathetic characters. Who could possibly conceive that calling such a mascot Wenlock was going to enable it to be down-with-the-homies in the fashion presumably intended? You really do comb your own tongue at the crassness of it.
Unless of course, I've somehow missed a post-millenium baby-boom of people called Wenlock.
In my youth, we had World Cup Willie.
A lion - representing the values of courage and strength that the national team were to so-aptly demonstrate in the pulsating World Cup Final of 66. A lion with a real, honest-to-goodness-name, representing an honest-to-goodness working class ideology.
Wouldn't last 5 minutes now would he, before someone objected to the phallic imagery suggested by the name, or complained that there was somehow cruelty to lions implied by his presence. Either that, or anyone wearing Willie merchandise would be the subject of playground beatings and religious fatwahs.
Somewhere in heaven, Mike Trebilcock is laughing his head off.
And of course it made me think:
Where are all the players with names like that nowadays? They probably aren't allowed anywhere near football clubs. Picture the scenario where a failed triallist is called in to be released: 'Sorry son, you're a great player but we can't have anyone whose name is not derived from Creole Patois in the team now.'
Although the Brazilian Fred is a notable exception to this rule, it does seem nowadays that you are only likely to get a place in the starting 11 if your name is Delorian or Chlyamidia or something. You can hardly imagine Mike Trebilcock selling loads of replica shirts, can you?
And what about team names themselves? Imagine calling one of the newer sporting franchises The Owls or The Toffees!? Right now, some executive somewhere is probably dreaming up a rebranding of Portsmouth that involves them being called Portsmouth Pirates or something. Look at what a ponced-up mess they've made of rugby league. Catalan Dragons my arse, as Jim Royle would no doubt opine.
The world has officially gone mad.
And this madness has now extended to the way in which we are marketing ourselves for the upcoming World Cup and Olympics. I mean, look at the figures above. It's no surprise that someone has started a mock-Twitter page designed to take the mick out of these pathetic characters. Who could possibly conceive that calling such a mascot Wenlock was going to enable it to be down-with-the-homies in the fashion presumably intended? You really do comb your own tongue at the crassness of it.
Unless of course, I've somehow missed a post-millenium baby-boom of people called Wenlock.
In my youth, we had World Cup Willie.
A lion - representing the values of courage and strength that the national team were to so-aptly demonstrate in the pulsating World Cup Final of 66. A lion with a real, honest-to-goodness-name, representing an honest-to-goodness working class ideology.
Wouldn't last 5 minutes now would he, before someone objected to the phallic imagery suggested by the name, or complained that there was somehow cruelty to lions implied by his presence. Either that, or anyone wearing Willie merchandise would be the subject of playground beatings and religious fatwahs.
Somewhere in heaven, Mike Trebilcock is laughing his head off.
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