The Centre For Football Research is completing a book of 45 chapters entitled “A Very English Game” academically and chronologically accounting for all of football history since the War. I’m a good deal of chapter 38 entitled “Moving Grounds” – about how bricks and mortar ever more conceal a throng of emotion and personal history – indeed, the stuff of “The Homes of Football”, “Passion of A Nation”, “A Common Passion”, “Football In Our Time” and “More Than A Game” (my photo-led offerings to date ). Anyway, this much overdue book is an illuminating read from John Williams/Andrew Ward…
Stuart Clarke took his first football photograph at Vicarage Road, Watford, in the mid-1970s. That day, he played truant from Saturday lessons at his grammar-school, caught the train, walked to the Watford ground and snuck his Instamatic camera through the turnstile. He had all day Sunday to think up an excuse for missing school.
As a young boy, watching Watford alongside his father and brother, Clarke spent half the time studying the people. He was fascinated by the crowd. At home he drew pictures of stadiums and spectators. Out and about, he took photogaphs with classic cameras. When he began hitch-hiking, he found that the fate of football teams was a guaranteed starting point for conversation.
After the 1989 Hillsborough Disaster, Clarke realised that something of national importance was decaying or dying. During the early 1990s, professional clubs were undoubtedly in a sad financial state, but Clarke saw beauty in the squalor of the grounds he visited. He decided to capture some of football’s former glories before they became the ruins of Rome. He started work on a photographic collection called The Homes of Football.
Slipping through a crack in the gate, bypassing the ticketing office at Wycombe Wanderers new ground (“a bit like an industrial unit”) he took a classic picture of BBC commentator John Motson live-to-Grandstand camera, in a blizzard and in so doing created for the fledgling ground its first toast to a new history and fable. At Blackburn, his shot of a man waving a crutch to celebrate a Manchester City goal (and their second successive promotion) portrayed football’s healing powers. And “Sunset over Springfield Park”, taken at Wigan Athletic’s unfashionable ground, captured a stereotypical sunset scene with blurred figures that seemed to represent ghostly generations of dreamy fans in that particular stadium…perched as it is over Orwellian coal mines. The image was made all the more poignant by Wigan’s later departure from Springfield Park (in 1999), their propulsion towards the Premier League.
Realising that he was on to something, Clarke travelled on a “Homes of Football” journey, from one fascinating football place to another, capturing images of character and substance. He understood that fans found real meaning in the detail of football grounds: the first sight of the floodlight pylon or a grandstand roof; the fanzine-sellers on the approach to the stadium; a PLAYERS AND OFFICIALS ONLY sign; a coach with the visiting team’s name on the side; a rickety tea-hut; the half-time scoreboard; the slope of the terrace, a staircase painted yellow to symbolise safety; a rolled-up match-day programme in a clenched fist; a distant view of hospitality boxes; and even football graffiti. He discovered that each ground had something distinctive. He loved the slightly scary walk to Burnley’s Turf Moor, with the occasional view of the Pennines, the sun low on the Towneley-side streets as queues formed in the chip shop. He was particularly pleased when he took his “Looking Up” picture at Sunderland. It achieved his aim to capture images that told stories and affirmed football’s meaning : “sets of brothers, sets of sisters, generations together, unifying, wonderous – a thousand mouths ajar atop fragile and heroic bodies red and white striped, the front row of which hanging on to the garden railings (red) – a picture of innocence, still possible, post Hillsborough”. Stuart Clarke built up a rich body of photographic art that portrayed the English national spirit through England’s national sport.
Geographers use the concept of topophilia – the love of place. Football fans, as much as anybody, have strong emotional ties to the material environment. Regular visitors to a football ground grow to appreciate the quirks of familiar surroundings. They accept defects and discomforts, rather like the stereotypical old man who sits in his favourite chair (despite its faulty springs) with pipe, slippers and newspaper at hand, perfectly content even though he knows that the house needs decorating and the roof needs fixing. By the early 1990s, the average English top-division stadium was the old man of Europe, 88 years old, far older than the average stadium in Germany (48) and Italy (37).
Like an old man’s home, a football ground can represent a castle, a theatre, a fortress, a refuge, a shrine, a cathedral, a site for a political rally or a tourist resort. A stadium is literally our home ground. It is a sacred place where feelings can be shown and you can be yourself. It is a therapy centre. It is a place for intimacy.
“You are close to the public,” Frenchman Eric Cantona said in the early 1990s, comparing English grounds with those in other European countries. “It is warmer. There is room for love.”
Very different to topophilia is topophobia – the fear of a place. Some rival grounds scare fans. At times, during the hooliganism era, their home ground did too. Some grounds felt like prisons. Fences and walls were built, dangerous objects were confiscated, CCTV footage recorded your every move, and police supervision matched that of prison warders. But the rump of fans still thought of their stadium as home. It still gave them an uplifting feeling on arrival. They enjoyed the smells of the grilled food, the sounds of the crowd and the tannoy system, and the visual pleasures of a green canvas dotted with colours.
Some fans have visited their football ground more times than they have visited a close relative (or even a workplace). They understand the impact of the weather on the pitch, the angle of the sun in different seasons, the wind direction, and they can guess the attendance by a mere glance at the denseness of the throng in a few telling areas of the ground.
Stuart Clarke intuitively understood this culture. Football grounds were Dickensian and dilapidated but they were also soaked in meaningful history. Southend United’s Roots Hall had subsiding terraces built over a rubbish tip, three stands clad in asbestos and crush barriers that could be shaken loose, but it was still home, and some fans had been visiting there since it opened in 1955. Teams, managers, directors and players come and go, the kit changes from time to time, but a club’s football ground remained a constant… until the early 1990s, that is, when the homes of football began to change radically.
In his report on the Hillsborough Disaster, Lord Justice Taylor stipulated that all Football League grounds should be all-seated for safety reasons. The Conservative government had little option but to support this, even if it meant putting their imminent Football Spectators Bill on hold. In 1990, John Major reduced the pools’ companies’ spot-the-ball duty from 42½% to 40% with the proviso that the difference went to the Football Trust for grant aids to help upgrade the major stadiums. The Taylor proposal was soon limited to the top two English divisions (and the Scottish Premier League). By the end of August 1996, the Football Trust, having received £127m via the betting companies, had committed £144m to the clubs (with £114m already paid), and the total cost to the football clubs was estimated at £455m. But the launch of a National Lottery dramatically reduced the money spent on spot-the-ball.
This was a great opportunity for the building industry (and profiteers inside and outside football). In the early 1990s, football was as much about Alfred McAlpine, Taylor Woodrow and Norwest Holst as it was about Gary McAllister, Paul Gascoigne and Howard Wilkinson. Football was regularly featured on the business and property pages of national newspapers, as well as in magazines such as The Economist and Construction News. Newspapers ran lots of stories that petered into nothing, including Arsenal’s supposed takeover of Wembley Stadium, Wimbledon’s move to Ireland, and Coventry City’s move 15 miles east for a possible ground-share with Leicester City.
Between 1988 and 2007, 24 of 102 League clubs moved grounds. Key factors were the financial value of the current stadium’s land (especially if it was centrally located in an expanding town or city), the opportunities for developing a cheaper site elsewhere, and the chances of getting planning permission for that alternative site. Some clubs decided to stay, raising development money by selling adjoining land for housing (e.g. Brentford) or a supermarket (e.g. Wolves, Crystal Palace, Bolton Wanderers, Hull City). Blackburn Rovers planned a £12 million redevelopment of three sides of their existing ground but it meant buying several terrace-houses on Nuttall Street and two mills at either end of the ground. Other successful clubs wanted to move in order to raise their capacity. In 1997, Sunderland moved from the long-neglected Roker Park (capacity 22,700) to a new stadium (capacity 41,600). Clarke photographed them all in flux – even held a show at The Royal Institute of British Architects.
Here was a great opportunity to rethink the whole stategy of stadium design. It raised the question of business partnerships and more effective ways of using outdoor and indoor space. Clubs looked to share new stadiums with other sports clubs, and indoor multi-purpose ideas included a golf driving range, five-a-side pitches, a bowling alley, a conference centre, a health spa, squash courts, offices, a hotel, and a multiplex cinema. It was also a chance to think about facilities for disabled spectators.
The meaning of football grounds is never more poignant than just before a club moves to a different stadium. The last match at the old stadium was always an emotional affair. Fans hung around afterwards, sifting through their memory bank as if it were a card-index file, feeling the tears well up, perhaps even remembering a friend whose ashes had been scattered on the pitch. When Brasenose College evicted Oxford City from the White House Ground in 1988, former City goalkeeper Alf Jefferies made a special journey to the ground, stood in both goalmouths and thought of all the wonderful times he had had there over forty years earlier.
A stadium closure usually heralded a memorabilia sale. At Millwall the ground was thrown open to the public and bids were taken for eleven sets of gates, 37 turnstiles, 53 stadium signs, pieces of carpet, a selection of club crests and a few wooden programme-selling booths. Patches of turf and plastic seats were available, but most of the Millwall seating was sold to Peterborough United. On the day of the sale, many fans just stood and stared at the site. A lot took photographs.
Millwall’s new stadium, the New Den, took only 57 weeks to build. It cost over £15m, and the money came from the Football Trust (£2.6m), Lewisham Council (£2.6m), the sale of the old ground for housing (£5m), the stadium’s new management company (£1m), the FA (£250,000) and an underwritten rights issue (£4m). The arena was also designed as a concert venue. At Huddersfield Town’s new home, the McAlpine Stadium, two REM concerts brought money into the whole town.
Most new stadiums met with complaints about parking and traffic snarl-ups because fans had to establish a new match-day routine. A national organisation, the Federation of Stadium Communities (FSC), had been formed to tackle issues of planning applications, parking for residents and general disruption. There were often simple issues. High stands could block the sun from houses or gardens.
Another issue was a new stadium’s name. The choices were sententious words from the English language (Pride Park in Derby), a traditional name off the map (Glanford Park in Scunthorpe), or a sponsor (The Britannia Stadium in Stoke). One trend was to commemorate club stalwarts in some parts of the new ground. Bolton Wanderers named the Nat Lofthouse Stand (after their famous player and manager){?}. Two new stadiums, the Madejski at Reading and the Kassam at Oxford United, were named after club chairmen. And, as Peter Corrigan wryly pointed out in The Observer, Bolton’s Reebok Stadium was named after one of the club’s trainers. Clarke continued continued continued photographing the fans buzzing around their new and old homes, trying to put face to Lowry’s matchstick men of “Going To The Match” famously painted at Bolton’s old Burnden Park.
Fans were concerned about production-line stadiums which added to clone-town feelings. Some fans saw them as part of an English trend towards placelessness. The 1996–97 Premier League fans survey found that 60% of spectators rued the lack of atmosphere in all-seated stadiums. The League investigated further and recommended attracting more away-team fans and creating “atmosphere areas” around the ground. Bands were encouraged, and amplifiers put in the stands. There were periodic campaigns for some terracing to be restored, but football’s impetus was towards the future. Photographer Stuart Clarke had captured the disappearing past at a critical time.
The rain of 20 July 2007 was disastrous in Gloucestershire. Around 4,000 homes and 500 businesses were flooded, more than 800 people had to leave their homes and water reached the crossbars of Gloucester City’s Meadow Park ground.
Sudden homelessness leaves mental anguish in its wake, and this was the third Meadow Park evacuation in just over 17 years. Long-standing Gloucester City fans had experienced 4ft of water in 1990 and 7ft of contaminated water in 2000 (leaving the ground unplayable for six weeks and uninsurable for ever). In the 2007 flood, water swamped the clubhouse, changing-rooms, catering facilities, hospitality areas, club shop, floodlight electrics and more than half the seats in the grandstand.
Loyal fans were teary eyed but determined to stay strong. One fan called for “the Dunkirk spirit”. Another offered to help with the clear-up and quoted Captain Oates (“I am just going outside and may be some time”). He was aware that two people had died at Tewkesbury Rugby Club, overcome by fumes when trying to clear floodwater.
“Last time we were flooded it turned the club from a bickering factional mess into a cohesive unit – fans, players, management working together and moving forward,” one Gloucester City fan wrote on the website shortly after the 2007 flood. “And it will make us stronger again, because it will remind us all how much the club means to us and how much we want to bring footballing success to the city.”
Once a club was made homeless it was a long and difficult road back, as Bristol Rovers, Charlton Athletic, Wimbledon and Brighton all found in the 1990s. Brighton shared Gillingham’s ground, 70 miles away, before renting the Withdean Stadium athletics facility in Brighton. Bristol Rovers spent ten years in Bath, 15 miles away, before agreeing a ground-share deal with Bristol Rugby Club.
The most distinctive period of homelessness befell the England national team in 2001. Wembley Stadium, tatty and debt-ridden, had been the subject of a £170m rebuilding plan (in 1996), a £210m plan (in 1997) and a £245m plan (in 1998). The last of these meant the FA would contribute £125m in loans and the remainder would come through the National Lottery. Wembley Stadium had been in private hands, but it was sold to a public trust – for £103m in April 1998 – so that the project could qualify for lottery funding.
London fought off competition for the national stadium from Bradford, Sheffield, Birmingham and Manchester. The FA always wanted to rebuild Wembley rather than move elsewhere, even though staying at Wembley never made much sense logistically. In 2001, a representative survey of active fans found that, when offered three site choices for a national stadium, their preference was Birmingham (60%) over Wembley (29%) and Coventry (11%). According to fans, a Midlands venue would even up the travel time for England followers, attract more interest, improve the atmosphere at matches and provide better value for money. But most fans couldn’t see the need for a national stadium when so many good club grounds were available.
“Wembley was a ghastly dump in the middle of a ghastly city,” said one 40-year-old female Leeds United fan. “Anywhere would be better – the toilets were a disgrace, the view was appalling, the travel difficult. Anywhere but Wembley.”
“The nostalgia around Wembley is fueled by the southern press who don’t like to travel to games,” said a Liverpool fan in his thirties. “I feel wherever the national stadium is built some matches should still be staged around the country.”
“I consider the whole affair to have been handled terribly,” said a Newcastle United fan living in Oxford. “Those in supposed authority have made English football appear in the hands of idiots. We now need positive action with those responsible showing strong leadership. I am sure if the fans are listened to, Wembley will soon be forgotten and either Birmingham or Coventry given priority.”
The main arguments in favour of Wembley were its tradition, its location in the capital city (with so many tourist attractions) and London’s prestige throughout the world.
“I believe strongly that a national stadium should be in the nation’s capital,” said a female Chelsea supporter in her twenties. “Wembley is historically the home of football and should remain so. Even northern fans loved coming to London as it made matches an occasion.”
“Wembley is the home of football, always has been, always should be,” said a Sheffield United fan. “Wembley is traditional, and where our greatest sporting moment took place.”
Wembley was a good example of the problems of moving grounds. Lots of interests came into play. The fans didn’t get what they wanted, the total cost was £1 billion and the aggravation was colossal.
One of Stuart Clarke’s aims was to get his Homes of Football project into the museums and art galleries around the country. and alongside photographing he began a years-long artistic and tactical assault on the curators of civic museums who half the time did not see football fit to grace its walls. He perservered, going round the back, tackling the Chief of Leisure Services as a way into the hallowed museums. This was before the days of ‘football museums’ – only Manchester United had one .
Clarke certainly succeeded – his “Homes of Football” exhibition was on tour for fifteen years – but he was only one of a number of artists, writers and musicians who captured football’s essence in the 1990s. As John Gausted, founder of the Sportspages bookshops said, at the start of the decade, “football has rediscovered its history.”
Football became a conduit for creativity. The sculptor Tom Maley produced statues of Wilf Mannion and Jackie Milburn, North East heroes of the 1940s and 1950s. Opera singers sang about football or sang to football audiences. Dance troupes were turning footballers’ movements into an art form. At the New Victoria Theatre in the Potteries, the play C’mon Stan dramatically reprised Blackpool’s fourth goal in the 1953 FA Cup Final, acted in slow-motion (forwards and backwards). Popular music unveiled Fog on the Tyne by Paul Gascoigne and a production line of FA Cup Final songs. TV comedy sketches included the Fast Show’s gentrified Arsenal fan who knew nothing about Arsenal. The Philosophy Football company produced tee-shirts and literature that commemorated football’s intellectual place. The Association of Football Statisticians went from strength to strength.
There was an all-round escalation in football literature. Fanzines filled a gap by giving intelligent and informed opinion by biased and committed fans. Nick Hornby’s Fever Pitch captured the intensity of a fan’s relationship with his club. Books on hooliganism created a new sub-genre, featuring not only past violence but showing the togetherness, sense of ownership and loyalty to your club. A Derby firm called Breedon Books produced a “Complete Record” series with team-goalscorer-attendance details of every game in a club’s history.
Football became fashionable in high-brow circles. Julian Barnes ended his A History of the World in 10½ Chapters with a fantasy about Leicester City winning the FA Cup. Literary magazines such as Granta and The Times Literary Supplement published football-related pieces, and academic papers appeared in new journals such as Soccer and Society. Football had grabbed the zeitgeist.
In the early 1990s, English people were faced with economic recession, repossession of houses, war in Iraq, negative equity, {poll tax/council tax}, unemployment and redundancy. People looked to their football club for some stability. Some people rejected the immediacy and nowness of modern popular culture and reprised what they saw as the authenticity of football’s past. Or they glorified football’s past because the late-1980s had been so awful for modern football. And yet the new generation enjoyed the present-oriented aspects of football and interest was at its highest for years.
England hosted Euro 96 under the banner “Football’s Coming Home”. Youth culture, football, music and comedy merged as it had in the 1960s. The tournament’s anthem became Three Lions by Ian Broudie, Frank Skinner and David Baddiel, but the real the catalyst for English sentiment was a collection of changing football grounds. The experience within the grounds gave football meaning, whether one was bemoaning the destruction of the past or simply celebrating the present. It was where you stood or sat with a close relative, a friend or strangers, and how you collected memories that spanned a range of emotions, whether you were across the touchline from Eric Cantona at Old Trafford, with Nick Hornby at Highbury, or rubbing shoulders with Stuart Clarke at one of the many emotionally moving grounds of England.
