I first watched the World Cup (note when it wasn’t explicitly denominated as the FIFA World Cup) when I was seven years old on the telly. It was held in Mexico and the year was 1970. England were the defending World Champions and I was hoping they could win the World Cup again.
In the lead up to the football, I remember Dad being unusually pushy about me and Mum going out to the shops for some reason. When we got back from the shops, I wondered what the big wooden box was in the front room. I can still remember the absolute joy and wonder when Dad slid the doors back to reveal a TV! But the real wonder happened when he switched it on and everything was in colour! I watched every game I could and collected my player stickers for my book, which I still have. I also collected all the coins that had individual England footballers on them to make up the whole England squad, all 30 of them. Dad got these for me every time he filled up with petrol from Esso stations. I still have this too and am looking at it as I write this blog.
England played Romania, Brazil and Czechoslovakia and I can remember the games, the colours and THAT save by Gordon Banks, like it was yesterday. England then played West Germany and famously went 2-0 up only to lose 2-3. I cried myself to sleep that night, but vowed to go to a World Cup as soon as I was old enough.
England never qualified for the World Cups in 1974 in Germany and 1978 in Argentina, but I was too young to travel anyway. I always said I would go to the World Cup, but will always remember my Mum saying to me, ‘no you won’t‘, to which I said, ‘I will, and I will go every time England qualify‘. And therein lies the root of this whole problem…..if it is a World Cup and England are in it, I have to be there.
So when England qualified for the World Cup in Spain in 1982, I was going to be there, no matter what. I duly took the ‘Magic Bus’ from Victoria coach station in London all the way to a place called Bilbao. Legend has it that Bilbao was specifically selected to be England’s base for the group games because it was an industrial city with a reputation for being a tough place. Our group games saw us play France, Kuwait and Czechoslovakia (again). We won all three games, scoring the fastest goal in World Cup history, a record which still stands today. I will never forget the white paint on the terraces was still wet when we watched the French concede that early goal and the first of three.
It was an eventful World Cup on so many levels, not least England got knocked out without losing a game, or missing penalties (penalty shoot outs did not happen back then), but went out on goal difference in the round robin knock out round, having drawn 0-0 with West Germany and the hosts, Spain. It also saw me in hospital and appearing on the telly and on the radio much to the horror of my Mum. That story is one for another day.
As we head to Qatar today, for what will be my ninth World Cup and Kirsty’s fourth, there has been much soul searching and much controversy around the human rights record of the host nation. The thing is, this is nothing new. Indeed the World Cup of 1978 was held in Argentina. That was marred by controversy, domestic politics, and alleged interference and match-fixing by the Argentine authoritarian military junta government, who were using the World Cup as an opportunity for nationalistic propaganda, and for the relatively new military junta to seek legitimacy on the world stage.
Fast forward to Spain in 1982 and few will remember that the fascist dictator, Francisco Franco had only died seven years before in 1975 thus ending his 36 year dictatorial rule over Spain. Franco was conservative and a monarchist, and opposed the abolition of the monarchy and the establishment of a republic in 1931. He was good friends with Hitler and Mussolini, and the rest they say, is history.
But back in1982 Spain was relatively new to the whole democracy thing, and different regions had not forgotten their bitter Spanish Civil War allegiances. We discovered the rivalry, bordering on hatred, between Catalonia and the rest of Spain. This was repeated in the Basque region, the capital of which was Bilbao, who also hated Spain and wanted their independence. ETA were the ‘terrorist’ or ‘freedom fighter’ group who were conducting an active bombing campaign at the time we were actually there. It was all very reminiscent of the IRA. Back then you never saw Cross of St George flags at England matches, it was always Union Flag, the red, white and blue one. The Basque flag was exactly the same design as the England (sic) flag, but in green, red and white and it seemed the Basques had a great affinity with us English/British and sided with us when we had various run ins with the Spanish police, who were armed and had all been sent from Madrid.
As we head off to Qatar, another country which has a different political culture to the UK, we’ve learned to take things in our stride and see how everything pans out. We know Qatar does not recognise all human rights the same way we do in the UK and are seemingly getting a little flustered about rainbow flags. We hope to enjoy our trip and learn some new stuff, whilst making a point or two around the ‘live and let live‘ mantra that makes Kirsty and I tick.
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