L S Lowry’s ‘Going To The Match’ depicts Burnden Park circa 1953. The painting is a revealing social history of how football operated a little over half a century ago. In the foreground is the stadium itself and the matchstick supporters approaching it. In the background, the terraced houses, mills and factories where they worked. All are within walking distance. The club chairman may well have owned one of the mills. He may well have had deep pockets, yet the clink of silver through the turnstiles was usually sufficient to pay the modest wages of the day.
Attendance money ruled, and would do so pretty much into the 1970’s and 80’s. Yet television money, sponsorship, and global merchandising would eventually outstrip this source of income (for the bigger clubs at least) Manchester United’s domination of domestic football during the 1990’s (Sir Alex Ferguson’s contribution notwithstanding) can also be attributed to the fact that they dominated each of these areas. Take the telephone conversation between Ferguson and Kevin Keegan in 1995. Andy Cole was ‘not for sale’ until Keegan made a remark about ‘silly money’ United had silly money (£7 million) and were prepared to spend it. The rest, as they say, is history.
But then came a phenomena which has the potential to blow United’s dominance out of the water – the emergence of growing numbers of super-tycoons, of which increasing numbers are attracted to the beautiful game (aesthetically, or as investment opportunities) Consider this: during a financial year where Chelsea ran at an operating loss of £150 million, Roman Abramovitch’s personal fortune increased by £4 billion.
Manchester City were traditionally better supported than their neighbours. We hold the record provincial attendance of 84,569, for a mid-week FA cup-tie, and derby games at Maine Road invariably attracted bigger crowds than those at Old Trafford. But a sequence of events was to change this pattern. The Luftwaffe, led by Uve Rosler’s Granddad, bombed Old Trafford, and during the nine years United were tenants at Maine Road, they inevitably attracted support from City’s heartland in south Manchester; The appointment of Matt Busby, once a Blue, as manager; the Munich disaster (the Thaw family from Gorton were all Blues, including John Thaw. He switched his allegiance out of sympathy) ; George Best, the fifth Beatle – Carnaby Street comes to Manchester. Consider this: our swashbuckling side of Bell Lee & Summerbee became champions following a 4v3 victory over Newcastle at St James’ Park in 1968. But the Match of the Day cameras were at Old Trafford for Utd’s 2v2 draw with Sunderland. A fact that still rankles with Mike Summerbee to this day.
During the Peter Swales era, and at a time when United were suffering a massive post-Busby hangover, we came close – very close. Attendances were only 2,000 below our rivals, and we were perennial challengers to Liverpool for the league title. Swales took a chance with Malcolm Allison, and the debate still continues as to the merits of his second coming. Whatever, we were left with a five million pound debt, and interest repayments of five thousand pounds a week – crippling at the time. ‘We’ll never gamble like that again’ said Swales. He would never be in a position to do so. And that was that, well not quite – because on the 23rd September 1989, out of form, and not given much chance, we beat United 5v1 in what became known as the ‘Maine Road Massacre’. The United supporters chanted ‘Fergie out’, and Ol’ Red Nose went straight home to bed, and put a pillow over his head. He was just one match away from the sack, but victory over Nottingham Forest in the cup averted that. The rest, as they say again, is history.
Franny Lee’s modest millions had no effect -- an initially bright dawn under KK petered out, following a series of disastrous signings. United were now light years ahead. We needed money – serious money. The short–lived reign of Dr Thaksin Shinawatra brought that, temporarily – but by last Summer, former chairman John Wardle was paying the players wages. And then the story broke, City had been taken over, in effect by the United Arab Emirates royal family. It was supposedly the news that shook the football world, yet a second ‘Abramovitch’ was surely predictable. It was always just a question of time.
Even for those without a predilection for board games ‘Risk’ can hold a certain fascination. The objective – world domination – each player beginning with the same size army. Therein lies the problem for a raft of clubs in the Premier League – the theatre of war is simply not level. Bill Kenwright, owner of Everton has stated in public, the club needs a billionaire in order to compete effectively. The takeover at City has brought that into sharp focus. Consider the money situation again: the Abu Dhabi ruling family are worth about £560 billion. Even if Mark Hughes received only the interest such a fortune generates, he could count on an annual budget of £200 million. No wonder Kevin Keegan jumped ship at Newcastle. The Toon Army may be the biggest, but King Kev wasn’t given the funds to kit them out with serious warheads.
City fans are just loving it – making Fergie sweat over Berbatov – an audacious January bid lined up for Cristiano Ronaldo. Just a pity we weren’t taken over by a banana republic, we could have brought back the inflatables. No matter, Arab headscarves are already available on Ebay – tea-towels will mysteriously disappear from homes in the Manchester suburbs, and Middle Eastlands will have the feel of an OPEC convention for the Chelsea game. Frank Shinawatra may no longer be there to sing ‘Thai Way’, but doubtless the Blue boys will be funking it up with ‘Sheik Your Ass’.
Much fun, yet the age of romance is well and truly dead. A programme – 28th January 1978 – Forest v City in the 4th round of the FA Cup. The Forest side reads: Shilton, Anderson, Barrett, McGovern, Needham, Burns, O’Neill, Gemmill, Withe, Woodcock, Robertson. They were 15 points clear of Manchester United, with a 4v0 win at Old Trafford under their belts. We dreamed of a Messiah such as Clough, who’s raggle-taggle side conquered
Europe. Instead, we got Frank Clark, his former full back, who introduced himself to the players with a country & western number. Oh, and Nigel Clough. Are we still paying his wages? It just ain’t going to happen, a Busby, a Shanks, a Mercer / Allison, a Revie, a Clough / Taylor. Mrs Mercer, Joe’s widow, is still a regular at City, as is Malcolm Allison. The latter put genuine fear into United, and it must be said, Peter Swales. No man likes to be reminded he’s sporting high heels and a comb-over. The last vestiges of a bygone era. Allison signed Bell from Bury, Lee from Bolton, Summerbee from Swindon. Want to get even more sentimental? Have a pint with Bob and Terry in the Fat Ox. The only thing to look forward too, the past.
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