‘Drop ten, turn and face’ Quilty’s Football Yarns 3 LWT and Brian Moore

‘Drop ten, turn and face’

Quilty’s Football Yarns 3

LWT and Brian Moore

Playing, supporting and coaching. To me these three activities are just different takes on something that became one of the most important and time consuming things of in my life, Football. I’ll speak chiefly on the latter here but bear in mind that they were all impacting on me as a person 12 hours a day, for nine months of every year, ever since I can remember.

The earliest recollection I have of football was when my step dad Cyril took me around to his parent’s house in Haggerston to watch the 1961 FA Cup Final on TV. I’d parked myself under the dinner table to watch and in spite of the game passing me by, remember everyone being happy as Spurs beat Leicester City 2-0. There began a great tough love affair. Even today I’ll give new Spurs supporters this piece of advice.

“Welcome to a lifetime of nearlyness, punctuated by the occasional actuality”

Family ties

As it would turn out me becoming a Spurs fan had been a very close run thing. In North East London there are many families who literally split internally for their football allegiance. Usually Tottenham and Arsenal but occasionally West Ham. My own extended family was no exception but my Quilty grandparents, were definitely all Arsenal. They lived in old flats not a hundred yards from Highbury in Avenal Road. That’s the way I would have surely headed team-wise but for the fortunate intervention of divorce. Mum and Dad split when I was seven years old and across I drifted into the light to support Spurs.

My relationship with my own father became a distant one. Not because he was an Arsenal fan and I was now Tottenham, it was more because I lived in Hackney and he had a new life and family out Carpenders Park way near Watford. The main way we kept in touch was through football. Dad worked at London Weekend Television in their ‘Outside Broadcast Unit’ covering the Big Match. As time went on going to games became the main way we saw each other. I’d make my way to White Hart Lane, seek out the Outside Broadcast trucks and he’d come and pick me up. At Tottenham they had a small TV gantry where commentator Brian Moore and a sound guy would sit. 

Fortunately for me there was always room there for a little one and there we sat hovering above the Shelf-side, ‘Heaven on a Saturday’ for this fan. Dad’s job was Floor Manager and he handled all the links between the commentary box and the production van parked outside the ground. Over the years he got me into countless Spurs games and then as the 70’s began several League Cup finals. In 1971 at the Spurs v Villa final he took me and my late friend, Tony Fuller, into Wembley to take up a position way up in the roof above the cameras, probably the best spot in the house. Two years later we were back again this time watch Spurs beat Norwich. We never had tickets to get in but Dad dressed us up in LWT jackets and we nodded through. Pitch-side was always chaotic at Wembley finals. Dad tells the story of one final where the LWT and BBC Outside Broadcast staff had a punchup on the side of the field. Apparently as the game was finishing the BBC were claiming ‘exclusive rights to interviewing the winning players. A push and shove brawl eventuated just off camera!

As the years rolled on Spurs entered the 80’s with a successful side and Wembley Cup Finals were back on again for me. In 1981 my Dad got me a fantastically situated seat for the Spurs Man City FA Cup final. It was just up behind the Royal Box area! In the event Spurs were 1-0 down at Half-time. Not being particularly religious I went out at half time and plonked all my spare cash in a collection box and made a wish. Thankfully Tommy Hutchinson diverted Glenn Hoddles free kick into his own goal and we were level at 1-1.

Being a student at Leeds University at this time I had to return north unable to make the midweek replay. My Dad got me ticket and I was fortunately able to pass it on to my step dad Cyril. Back up in Leeds I got to watch the replay in the share house where I lived with good mate and Man City supporter Bren Mclaughlin. My future wife Terrie relates the story of watching us watching the game fearing that we were about to kill each other. The replay was one of the best FA Cup Finals of all time, five goals in a match swinging one way then the next. Our 3-2 win was our first in the FA Cup since 1967. Dad was now doing less Football broadcasts and instead doing programmes like Please Sir, On The Buses, Jasper Carrott, Dempsey and Makepeace and the Stanley Baxter show. Thus, the following year 1982 was the last time I he got access at Wembley. Spurs had Liverpool in the League Cup Final. Dad slipped Terrie and I in through the turnstiles and we took up great seats behind the goal. Unfortunately it was the Liverpool goal and we were stuck with thousands of crazy scousers as we lost the game 3-1. An inauspicious end to years of football joy courtesy of London Weekend Television

‘Drop ten, turn and Face.’ Quilty’s Football Yarns 4 Round’ the flats

‘Drop ten, turn and Face.’ Quilty’s Football Yarns 4

Round’ the flats

As people will often be heard to say today, we played out until it was dark and our parents called us in. Living in large blocks of flats you might think that there would be confusion with the calls but most kids parents had a distinct bellow or whistle that demanded the kids roll home. We sometimes played over Vicky Park but more often just down to the ‘pitch’. This was a tarmac floored 40 yard space hemmed in by brick walls with a one foot ledge down one end. No one took any notice of the ledge, it was just part of the game, we adapted. As player I was never what could be termed a ‘tackler’. Looking back I know why I went that way. The ‘pitch’ was not only tarmac but always seemed to have broken glass somewhere on it. Thus, balance and staying on your feet became all important, few people sliding in on that treacherous ground.

Going to a small primary school, Lauriston in South Hackney, meant that it wasn’t that difficult to make the school team. We ended up with a multi age side ranging from fourth year to sixth. I probably took four main things away from playing football in those early years. One, never volunteer for anything! I’d foolishly put my hand up to go in goal one game and spent what seemed like an eternity praying the ball would not come down our end. Obviously, god had not been listening up there because shots few past me with alarming regularity to make us 0-4 down. Then unbeknown to myself, I charged out diving at the feet of an oncoming attacker collecting both the ball and a knock to the head. The adulation, concern and irony of the situation all washed over me as I lay sprawled on the ground, ball firmly gripped to my chest. The walk home with the team was all a haze but I’d gotten away with it. There was a wet fish shop in Lauriston Road that did hot chips...heaven in a newspaper wrapper. 

A second thing I had learned in that side was that football pitches rarely open up to swallow you up! A shame because in one game I missed an open goal from right under the cross bar. A deft touch to carry it up vertically and over the crossbar when it would be way easier to score. Fortunately that second lesson was made more palatable by the third. There is no feeling like scoring a goal! At Lauriston I scored my first competitive goal and the adrenaline it fostered was a natural high if ever there was one. No great strike in this case but seeing the ball pass by the keeper into the net is a wonderful liberating feeling.

Probably the most important lesson I learnt at Lauriston was how to deal with disappointment. Somehow in Year 5 we had made the Hackney Schools Cup Final. This was in the very early sixties way before substitutes and reserves were allowed. My teacher, Mr Buck explained to me that as one of the younger players in the team I was to miss out playing in the final, a Year 6 boy Norman Seagal was to play instead. The memory of that feeling stayed with me for life and but helped no end with player empathy, when selecting or non-selecting players. I know how they feel.

‘Drop ten, turn and Face.’ Quilty’s Football Yarns 5 Finding a side

‘Drop ten, turn and Face.’ Quilty’s Football Yarns 5

Finding a side

Moving on to Parmiters Grammar School, in Bethnal Green, meant that with only one school side, most players had to settle for a run in the house competition. In some ways this pushed me, and my mates to play for a local club, Fields United run by the Sally Army. When eventually leaving school as a group of 17/18 years old’s we started our own side. We would play in the Hackney & Leyton Sunday competition. Our side was Strathspey FC.  We went the whole season of that first year without a win until an opposition team forfeited the last game of the season. As a teenager coming into men’s football you learn fast. Breezing past a twenty-five year old defender would only be something you would do once! Every occasion to follow would see you end up on the ground with an agricultural tackle sorting you out. Hackney Marshes was indeed a brutal place. One hundred and ten pitches and none having nets. One freezing Sunday morning there we were, with our nine playing their ten players. It was so foggy that you couldn’t see the goal posts from half way, even more of a problem with no nets on the goals! Here I was, frozen to the bone and with a dodgy stomach, when all of a sudden I’ve hit the sweetest shot form 25 yards top corner and turned to celebrate. The Referee blows his whistle for a goal kick! In disbelief I pleaded with anyone who would listen but no, he was unbending. In desperation I ran up to their goalie and said, “Mate, that is the best goal I’ve ever scored and the ref didn’t see it”. He looked deep into my pleading eyes and somehow some pity stirred. “Oi Referee.....That was a goal, it went in”. In that moment my faith in the game, fairness and humanity was restored.

‘Drop ten, turn and Face.’ Quilty’s Football Yarns 6 Old Parmiterian Glory

‘Drop ten, turn and Face.’ Quilty’s Football Yarns 6

Old Parmiterian Glory

The Old Parmiterian’s are the old boys club which sprang from Parmiter’s School in Bethnal Green. My old School. Before you can ever discuss the success of this club it is necessary to acknowledge the contribution of club stalwart and legend Frank Mariani. This bloke has driven and advocated for the club since the mid-seventies. In my year at school, Frank has worked tirelessly to improve the club. Be it finding players, providing top rate communications or finding venues to base the club, he was and is at the centre of all such efforts. Usually the club runs about sixteen sides. First grade all the way down to Super Vets for the Over 45’s. I played with OPFC as an all age player but took the opportunity in 1985 to play for their Vets or Over 30’s side. This decision actually means that if I actually get to step on the field in 2020 I would have played Vets football for 35 years! Playing for OPFC undoubtedly provided me with the most successful period of my playing story, Five Cup Final wins and a League Title. One particular final stands out from the eighties. We made the Final of the AFA Novets Cup. This was where teams from all the various Old Boys Leagues came together. In this case it was open to All Age sides below a certain grade, we qualified as a Vets side from OPFC. As a rule, the games tended to be played somewhere around the North or South Circular road in London, this was where most clubs were based. On this particular day we had to go west to a neutral  ground for the Cup Final. All was well as our players and supporters arrived before the game. My late dad Sid came along to watch, which was great. Only one person was missing central defender and fellow school teacher, Johnny Pearson. He had the team-kit. With thirty minutes to kick-off we were all relieved to see him arrive. Unfortunately, he had forgotten to bring our shirts! As embarrassing as it was we needed to find something to wear. Fortunately a bystander piped in to say he had an old set at home and like our shirts they were white. Within ten minutes he was home and back with a vintage set of ‘Admiral’ shirts from the late seventies! Fashion statements aside we had no real choice and quickly donned the shirts musky smell and all! Back then there were no substitutes allowed in the competition, so if you were picked to play you always got a full game. As ever nerves played a big part in the final and having gone ahead 1-0 we then quickly conceded to go back to being all square. Cup finals are so intense that in the first few minutes you often forget to breath and feel like you are almost suffocating.  The final remained in the balance with the game drifting towards possible extra time, I scored what was probably my best goal ever. As anyone who has played with me knows I always take long throws in the game. This time I launched it right into the box, from ten yards from the corner flag. Their centre back won the header and the ball came back in my direction as I trotted back onto the pitch. The ball seemingly hung in the air for an age. So long in fact that I actually had time to consider how I would send it back again. So there, from the corner of the penalty area I opened my foot to catch it with a side foot volley. Again time seemed to stand still. Up it looped back toward the still crowded six yard box, almost in slow motion it started to dip, clipping the bar and far upright before nestling in the net. Scoring in a final is an amazing feeling so when it turned out to be the winner I was so proud playing in front of Sid.

Playing for a side that can only use eleven players can also have its drawbacks. One season I had played for OPFC all year and we only needed a point to win the League. You can understand then, my disappointment as the captain Peter Rocca told me I wasn’t to play in that final game. A combination of tactical and temperament reasons were given for the decision. Peter said that win or lose I had been part of it. In the event we won the game to be crowned champions. In retrospect, that incident was a life lesson for me. It gave me a player perspective that has helped me numerous times as a coach across the years.

As a player I’d usually played as a winger back then. Used to score six or seven goals a season but was in no way ever prolific. That was until one year I turned out for a side called Thorn Athletic. We were a good side but lacked a big striker. You guessed it they pushed me up front as centre forward, a position I’d never played previously. Well in this season something happened and the football gods looked favourably on me. I scored 19 goals in 14 matches. Headers, long shots and volley’s, they all flew in. That was it. Just one season of goal-scoring glory never to be repeated.

‘Drop ten, turn and Face.’ Quilty’s Football Yarns 7 Strikers

‘Drop ten, turn and Face.’ Quilty’s Football Yarns 7

Strikers

Good strikers are a special breed. They really come alive in and around the box. Five I particularly remember were Bobby Gilham, my cousin Gary Stretch, my brother in law Johnny Harrison, Nick Mountford and Bobby Colville here in Australia.

Bobby Gilham played for the Goldsmith Arms, like Gary and Johnny he was only small but in the box he seemed to come alive when everyone else was unmoving and flat footed. Gary played good Youth football and i’ll speak of him later. Johnny Harrison is only five foot four inches but played as a professional for Charlton in 1975 alongside Derek Hales and Micky Flanagan. He also played for England Youth. He was an amazingly talented player who one night scored away to Brian Cloughs Nottingham Forest side. As a kid he regularly scored 100 goals a season for clubs like ELY, East London Youth. 

Nick Mountford played for Wahroonga and Turramurra United. He still plays and coming down the left has the raw speed to spoil your afternoon. He is the kind of player regularly added to World Masters sides around the world...he is that good. Bobby Colville still plays today in Sydney but also played as a youngster in England for Stockport and Oldham. He scores goals for fun. Brilliant touch, speed and finisher. Whichever club Bobby plays for, wins, end of story. 

Gary’s story was a bit more serious. As I’d mentioned previously at one time I’d coached his team Queensbridge trucks. As a teenager Gary was often in trouble around Hoxton. He was a face well known to police. With this in mind, he was out one night in the Nags Head Pub in Hackney Road with his girlfriend. Somehow, he got involved in an argument with some off duty police and they attacked him. As the attack progressed they tried to drag him outside to a van. His ear was almost ripped off and he suffered a serious eye injury and rib damage. Fortunately, a barmaid rang the police, she was a judge’s daughter and had some hotline she could call. Within minutes uniformed police arrived and intervened fighting the plain clothed police in the process until they all realised what was happening. Gary was taken to hospital. These four attackers were suspended from the force immediately pending a trial. Knowing this could take a while Gary’s parents convinced him to leave London to go and lie low in recovery. In a way these events that nearly cost Gary his life probably were a catalyst for saving him. He moved down the south coast and lived a healthy life which was a revelation to him. While down there he joined a local semi-professional football club and proceeded to become the town hero scoring 25 goals and winning them the league in the process.

This story was a happy one but unfortunately had a sinister twist. The four police were eventually found not guilty of the criminal charges, it couldn’t be proven beyond reasonable doubt that Gary had not provoked them! In the event Gary also sued them in a civil case where the burden of proof was lower. On balance of probabilities it seemed that they had indeed almost killed him in the attack. They were sacked from the Metropolitan Police and Gary got 50,000 pounds compensation. The sinister ending came about when months later, Gary was visiting his parents in Hoxton, going there after watching football one Sunday morning at Hackney Marshes. As he went down the flats stairs after Sunday dinner, two masked men jumped him. One grabbed and held him while the other used a machete to sever the young man’s hamstrings with the blade! Nothing was said. They could, if they so desired have killed him but was not the intention. In time Gary recovered to play again.

So they are my special five strikers. It would be remiss of me to not mention a couple of good friends who occasionally pretended to be forwards. Big Jimmy Everitt and bald Scot Derek Kirk. Jim modelled himself on the stylish Frank Worthington while Derek with the ball at his feet had one of the powerful shots I’ve ever seen. Strikers, like keepers a special breed.

Drop ten, turn and Face.’ Quilty’s Football Yarns 8 Selling the game to the world

Drop ten, turn and Face.’ Quilty’s Football Yarns 8

Selling the game to the world

As a youngster I played three types of football. For Leeds in the University and Half Holiday League, for Old Parmiterians in the Southern Olympian / Southern Amateur League and for a whole variety of pub sides in the East London Sunday and Hackney & Leyton League both based predominantly at Hackney Marshes. It was for one of these Pub sides, The Brownswood Tavern, that I pushed my powers of persuasion to the limit. With Eleven O’Clock kick offs on a Sunday morning you are always introducing a random element for players in such sides. That is ‘getting so pissed on a Saturday night’ means that Sunday football starts very late! Anyway, this morning we had driven house to house throwing stones up at windows, chatted with mums on doorsteps and done what we could, to field a side. There were two crucial rules you had to comply with on a Sunday morning, First, you had to have at least seven players on the field at kick off and second, you had to start by 11.15am or forfeit the match. So there we were, 11.05am and just six players on the pitch. Desperate to play the game I did something questionable, but then I am persuasive around football. One of our regular supporters was a twenty year West Indian guy named Norman. He was there every week, hail or shine. Norman was also disabled, barely four foot tall and used crutches to stand up. Yes, I asked Norman to put a Brownswood shirt on and to walk two yards onto the field so we had seven players to start the match. Embarrassed, Norman reluctantly did what I asked, until five minutes later the cavalry arrived with six new players and he could come off again, might I add, to mighty applause from all at the ground. Looking back knowing my passion for the game I would still ask him today. Norman also quietly told me that that five minutes on the field sent adrenaline right through him, he loved it! Getting back to the Brownswood Pub later on, Norman’s story of his game role had grown to most of the first half. ‘Funny old game’ as Greavsey used to say😊⚽️

Greg Saunders a good mate. We played for the Brownswood Tavern together in the 80’s

‘Drop ten, turn and Face.’ Quilty’s Football Yarns 9 Away at University in Leeds: The Cold harsh North.

‘Drop ten, turn and Face.’ Quilty’s Football Yarns 9

Away at University in Leeds: 

The Cold harsh North. 

While I enjoyed my four years up at Leeds University playing twice a week, we did play in two distinct competitions. On Saturdays we travelled all across the north of England playing other Universities in the UAAC competition. Newcastle, Leicester, Manchester, Hull, Sheffield and Lancaster to name but a few. Midweek we played in what was quaintly called the Half Holliday League. Knottingley Miners, Leeds Post Office, St James Hospital and Leeds Asylum, at High Royds House, were some of the sides in this competition. This latter side were interesting if only because they played their home games in the magnificent Asylum grounds. As our coach drove in, residents could be seen in their pyjamas strolling around. One game we arrived to find ourselves a linesman short. The referee was an officious type and the game was delayed. Then, along the touchline one of the patients appeared, picked up the flag and stood ready to do the job. Quickly the captains approached the referee to chat. In a minute it was decided that this bloke would hopefully be as impartial as anyone and thankfully we got to play the game.

We had a fantastic ground out at Westwood but I never got on with the Groundsman, a gruff Yorkshireman. He once called our home matches off two weeks in a row when the pitches were playable. On the third week the pitch was under six inches of snow but he left the game on. The following week we turned up only to hear the game was off. Pissed off we put the nets up and played anyway. After 15 minutes he suddenly appeared in his car and drove on the pitch as we were playing. Scottish Brian reached the car before I did, insisting the groundsman wind down his car window. Not sure he understood every word but basically he told him, “Move your f’in car or we will roll it over”. He moved it.

As a follow up, by chance I was in the Student Union office one day. I wrote for Leeds Student and just happened be standing by the Union Administrators desk when I saw a file on his desk with my name on it! Full of 26 year old indignation I demanded an explanation. Apparently the groundsman had reported me! I got a full apology.

Being a team of University players in 1980 did not always go down well in the Half Holiday League, especially when we went to play against the coal mining sides like Knottingley. Set on a bleak snow swept hill off the M1, the pitch was decidedly more welcoming than the team itself. Being ignorant, I was convinced that the grunting right back who marked me was wearing eye liner. Only to be told that these guys only worked half a day on the Wednesday, before showering and coming straight to the game. The eye liner was in fact coal dust that had ingrained itself.

One of my last ever games up in Leeds was in 1983 and was the Cup Final of the Half Holliday League itself, we were playing a red hot Leeds Post Office side containing at least five West Indian super athletes in the team. Everything was set up right for disappointment. It was their home ground and they had hundreds of supporters out at Waddington Stadium. True to expectation they were running riot, just twelve minutes left and they were leading 5-2. We were shot. Then, one by one their superstars were withdrawn to a virtual standing ovation from the crowd. I personally came off the field at this point to be quietly replaced by a certain Paul Large, the son of Leicester player Frank Large. Paul had played a few earlier round games for us but insisted that we all enjoy our final and he would only come on if needed. Boy did we need him! First touch, Paul shoots and in off the cross bar, 5-3. Upon the restart Paul wins possession going the length of the field to score, 5-4. By now the Leeds Post Office crowd had ceased the celebration party and the subbed super-stars were demanding to be let back on again. Then just as time was running out Paul went wide, pulled the ball back for an easy tap in by a Leeds player, 5-5 and the end of normal time.

The unbelievable had happened and we went to extra time. With the momentum we had there was only to be one winner and sure enough Paul Large scored again to complete a most unlikely hat-trick and lift us the Cup. A great way to finish my four years in the cold harsh north!