Last night, on BBC iPlayer, I watched The Damned United. If you haven’t seen it, or don’t know what it is, please watch it. It’s the story of Brian Clough’s brief period in charge of Leeds United. It’s a fascinating story.
Leeds United’s ground, Elland Road is within walking distance of where I’m sat typing out this blog post. I reckon I could be standing outside the stadium in less than 30 minutes walking time.
Now it’s a bit weird for me to be writing stuff about Leeds United because I’m a Manchester United fan. When I was a little lad I asked my Dad who the nearest team to Oldham1 were. Thinking I meant apart from Oldham, he replied Manchester United. A mere single bus ride away from where I then lived. So I became a fan of the Manchester club in the period of George Best, Dennis Law, Bobby Charlton, Alex Stepney etc etc. I actually started attending home games in the period of Tommy Docherty, Sammy McIlroy, Martin Buchan, Steve Coppell etc. Great days.
So when I watched the film last night, it struck a chord with me. Bus rides to the ground, meat pies, scarves, players who had a link to the community, even though back then we still saw them as stars. Stars from the community though. It’s an important distinction.
So what do we have now in today’s game. Not stars but mega-stellar stars. Players who are so far removed from the communities they purport to represent that they may as well be aliens. Filthy rich aliens to boot. Manchester City have just signed Yaya Toure. It’s my understanding that he’s being paid £221,000 per week. If you imagine an eight-hours-a-day, five day week, that’s 92 quid per minute. Per fucking minute! That can’t be right, no matter how much you dress it up, that can’t be right. We’re being asked to tighten our belts in this age of austerity and yet a fucking sportsman is being paid 92 quid a minute.
So, in order to pay for this abhorrent warping of financial reality, normal working class people are expected to cough-up ridiculous amounts of scarce money to watch these prima-donnas play a game. No fucking way.
So, with a heavy heart I suppose I need to draw a line. From now on, Premiership Football doesn’t exist in my life. I’m refusing to watch it. I can no longer applaud one rich olligark’s team trying to beat another’s. It has nothing to do with me whatsoever. It has nothing to do with anyone’s community at all.
I was a fan of Manchester united. If the true representatives of that club, that ethos ever re-appear. I will be so again. Until then, fuck off.
- The place where I was born. [↩]
