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By
Rab MacWilliam / Illustration by Mick Terry
Roger Daltrey’s ‘Highbury Highs’, his
farewell to the old stadium sung after the Wigan game, was an emotional
experience, but he might have been less indulgently nostalgic if
he had reflected on Arsenal’s mid-1970s dog days.
Then there was no Gunnersaurus, continental players, O2 replica
shirts, giant video screens, perfect playing surface, flashy passing
or any of the things taken for granted by the Gooners of today.
However, we did have the pleasure of watching a bunch of generally
average players hoofing the ball about to no great effect, we could
drink alcohol on the terraces and we could smoke without some nearby
health fascist waving his hands about and pretending to cough. And,
of course, there was the Metropolitan Police Band (the biggest cheer
of the day at one match came when the leader of the band dropped
his mace in front of the North Bank).
Before the home games I’d meet up with Doug, Phil and Charlie,
the last two born and brought up in a small flat built into the
West Stand, in the George Robey pub next to Finsbury Park station,
sink a few bevvies and then roll on down to the Home of Football.
Sometimes Des would turn up, looking for a respite from his job
in Soho, where he worked in, and lived above, a seedy little strip
club and operated the opening and closing of the curtain between
the girls’ performances, all the while working his way through
classic works of literature (or so he claimed). We’d find
our spot on the Clock End, pausing only to fill plastic cups with
watery beer, then meet up with a few other grumbling reprobates
and settle down to watch a 0-0 draw against Middlesbrough.
The old Double side was in the process of breaking up, although
such stalwarts as Rice, Storey, Armstrong, Simpson, Kelly and Radford
remained, while three young Irish lads – skinny David O’Leary,
urchin Liam Brady and moody striker Frank Stapleton – were
making their way through into the first team. But seasons 1974/5
and 1975/6 saw Arsenal in the doldrums, finishing 16th and 17th
respectively in the League, a state of affairs which today’s
younger fans would find impossible to imagine.
 There
is something insidiously seductive about footballing failure, although
home defeats against the likes of Stoke, Ipswich and, worst of all,
Spurs, took some of the shine off this romantic fancy. They also
lost away to Luton and (whisper it) Carlisle United. The essential
unfairness of these drubbings created a sense of resentful solidarity.
The boys bonded together in heckling the players, mouthing off about
manager Bertie Mee and moaning about them all in the pub afterwards.
I remember a few years ago going to watch Arsenal play Wimbledon
at Selhurst Park when a Gooner shouted ‘Bergkamp, you’re
rubbish’. Oh, how we laughed at this ironic irreverence. Back
in the 1970s there was nothing ironic about the insults.
Things picked up a bit towards the end of the 1970s, with the Arsenal
under new manager Terry Neill reaching three Cup finals (and losing
two) on the trot, but then slowly declining again into quasi-somnolence,
until the arrival of Stroller began to restore the natural order
of things. The ‘band of brothers’ gradually split up,
the Upper East Stand beckoning increasingly aging bodies.
The commodification of football was looming. Hillsborough signalled
the departure of the terraces and, with them, the tribalism of the
fans. No longer able to stand together, the various sub-groups had
to disperse across the ground, with a consequent loss of camaraderie
and togetherness. Majestic though the old Highbury was, and stunning
as Ashburton Grove appears to be, blandness and brand loyalty have
replaced the unique culture and inventiveness of the terraces (‘Peter
Shilton, Peter Shilton, does your missus know you’re here?’
from the North Bank to the Leicester goalie after he’d been
caught in flagrante with someone other than his wife the previous
week).
A friend of mine recently told me that I’d put him off football
for good after I dragged him to the Clock End to watch a deeply
tedious match against, I think, Leeds, mainly memorable for the
freezing temperatures and the driving rain. He’d missed the
point. Only by plumbing the depths of misery can you understand
what euphoria really means.
There wasn’t much to be euphoric about on the Clock End in
the mid-1970s, but the misery was comforting.
(To find out how things have changed, read Boy in the Clock End)
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