Football Standards in 1970 : Hampden Park

For some reason which I can now no longer recall, I began to talk to myself about being at Hampden Park in 1970 for the Scotland v England game.  What got me onto this I forget but the experience of Hampden in 1970 is not one to forget easily.

Today the football world is littered with glamorous football stadia, before the fires and tragedies that brought about a much needed reconstruction for safeties sake not all stadiums were glamorous.  Places like Muirton Park Perth, the home of St Johnstone, for instance contained the only full sixed pitch outside of Hampden Park.  The surrounding ground was very much an ancient, crumbling second division affair.  Brockville Park, where the Falkirk team displayed or not their talents was called by some 'The Black hole of Falkirk.'  A pleasant enough ground for lower division crowds but problematic for anything above 5000.  

Hampden Park itself was where the Scotland team had played since the beginning of football under the Queens Park side who still called it home.  A large bowl where the 'Hampden Roar' was unequalled anywhere else.  Not that the Scottish 'Blazers' would have considered anywhere else as worth noting at the time.  Both at the end of the second world war and shortly afterwards the ground recorded attendances of over 148,000.  No ground in Scotland, or indeed the rest of what is laughingly called a 'United Kingdom' could equal this.  

This vast expanse contained a football pitch with a running track around it, while the terraces were comprised of what can be called 'grit,' held together and edged by wooden short beams. which did not always remain in place.  Stairways, usually unoccupied, ran down from top to bottom ensuring some form of access.  Crash barriers, or should that be, 'Crush Barriers,' were installed aplenty around the terracing.   On one of Glasgow's rare rainy days the ground could easily turn into a quagmire.  The slopes that comprised exits were soon bringing back Somme memories to ex-servicemen of a certain generation.  The terraces themselves were damp, clean shoes were never an option in these circumstances.  

As an example of a game from that time I mention one I attended, the 1970 Scotland England game.  We left Waverley Station on a passenger train especially designated for football fans.  A train comprising old coaches, somewhat run down, and set aside for the drunken hooligan element British Rail expected.  I was not sure why an international crowd would resort to drunken hooliganism but there you go,  British Rail took no chances.  There was no trouble, little comfort, I vaguely remember standing but not if we stood all the way there.  It was mostly quiet in our coach, and I suspect the others, and we arrived at Queen St  Station, Glasgow and somehow made our way to the ground.  We must have travelled by what was then called the 'Blue Trains,' as that was how we returned to Queen St after the game. 

Phil Richards Class 303

We encountered one problem at Hampden, one of us four had no ticket.  Browsing around outside the ground looking for a tout we encountered a small huddle of lads surrounding one man.  He was attempting to divest himself of the crowd while nearby a gentleman with clearly no connection to this chap hung about.  Understanding that tickets were somewhere in the crowd our boy plunged in to barter.  The totally innocent man nearby nodded, and a ticket was produced for the exchange of £1/10/-.  30 bob for a ticket!  £1:50 in today's money!  However, please note that official tickets for this game only cost £1 at the time.  Add to this that the SFA indicated after the game that 137, 500 small cardboard tickets were handed in at the game, while only 135,000 official tickets were printed!  Not a bad days work for someone.

Our tickets invited us to clamber up the not quite dry slopes into our section of the ground.  There we awaited the appearance of our mate who's ticket bore a different colour and gate to ours.  In the distance to our left, we saw him appear and begin to make his way towards us.  The ground was quite empty at the time and he had no difficulty passing through, or over the separating fences.  

As at all games at the time we stood in between two barriers.  We remained far enough from the one behind in case it broke and fell on us, yet not to near the one in front, so if that gave way we fell on them.  Practical requirements at the game in those far off days.

As it was the crush was great.  Next to us stood a 'Rob Roy McGregor' type, beard and bunnet and all.  He was confused by our group one of who called on Scotland with an English accent, caused by being brought up there, while unknow to Rob Roy another supported England with an Edinburgh accent but not out loud.  We spent much time moving in the crowd as such crowds constantly move.  Our main aim was to keep between out English accented Scot and Rob Roy.  This broke down however, when Colin Stein, through on goal, was sent over the knee of the England centre half!  The entire crowd yelled 'PENALTY!' and reached forward.  Quite how the ribs did not break I will never understand.  The Dutch referee responded as such Dutch referees always did in those situations, he ran away!  No penalty was given, though it ought to have been, and we all stood attempting to breathe properly while breathing fire at the Dutchman.  With aching ribs and Rob Roy to contend with this was not easy.

The game finished as a no scoring draw, only the second in such meeting since 1872.  Of course I had to be there!  Tsk!  I mean I had to be at the 1970 game, not the 1872 one.  

At the end we joined the crowds heading down the slopes, these now in a much worse state after the crowds had marched over them.  We waited while most had moved before joining them and at the bottom fought our way through those heading towards awaiting buses.  We naturally had to go the other way for the 'Blue Trains.'  Outside the ground a heaving mass of men, nearly all men, pushed through one another, all knowing the unwritten laws of such crowd situations.  

Two years previously we had been heading in the other direction towards the bus, to our right a gentleman dressed in the usual uniform of overcoat of the time, was indicating to the entire crowd coming towards him that they had to get out of his way.  In his alcoholic stupor he could not work out that by moving to his left a few feet and the throng would carry him home, if that is he was facing the correct direction.  We let the throng carry us on that occasion, this time our throng headed the other way until we were stopped beside a police horse slavering at both ends.  Here police control was in force, one long line of stragglers moved, then another, having avoided both ends of the horse we soon progressed to the train and back into the city centre.

Now it was  simple thing to get on an Edinburgh bound train, however, the crowd was queuing up way outside the station so instead we decided to await a later train and refreshed ourselves in  Glasgow pub.  

Glasgow pubs have always had a reputation, not always deserved. Pubs everywhere produce bad behaviour, not just Glasgow ones.  The late 60s and 70s were not a good time for pubs however, the two main breweries 'Scottish Brewers' and 'Tennent Caledonian,' were intent on producing some of the most bland pubs known to man, and the beer to go with it.  This pub, the name escapes me but it has probably changed anyway with time, was close by and quite crowded.  It must have been after 5:30 or nearer 6 pm by the time we entered, obtained our lager and found a seat.  We sat there filling time amidst the hubbub of noise, suddenly, on a table two tables down from us, an empty beer glass fell over.  Silence!  All looked around, no-one spoke, a hand reached out and reset the glass, all turned away and suddenly the hubbub returned and life continued.  

Then we ventured out, walked through the dark, damp streets to the station, caught a train, another long compartment coach, and headed up the slope back to the Waverley.  

Today's wealthy, soft, well provided for fan would not be able to cope in such circumstances.  Digital tickets, online booking, seats that they ignore and stand up throughout a game, no pie from the stall, instead almost a Takeaway meal, and now they consider bringing beer back into the grounds.  Train travel, along with a large 'Carry oot,' on a luxury electric train or perhaps driving in your own car to fret about the cost of parking when arrived is the other option.  No more fearing those kids who offer to 'protect your car' for money.  A softened 'Nivea' smothered generation would not survive football in the days of yore.  I wonder sometimes how I managed it.

Long Night, Long Day

Another tiring day.  

Struggled to wake this morning, forced myself up, and breakfasted on a stale roll.  Some folks have less than this of course.  I cogitated on the day and decided I wished it to be a restful one, except of course I had the parcel to post.  Another birthday, another waddle down to the Post Office at the corner shop, I go there because the young lady always smiles at me, unlike the miserable dragons at what laughingly, is the main Post Office in town.  So, sun cream applied, desert hat on head, off I hobbled.  

There is a wind at the moment but the sun was about 70% as I headed east.  I could feel it on my face, in spite of the hat, and my absurd appearance meant several vans and cars slowed down to let me cross the road when required.  They needed the laugh I suppose.

After this my day was over.  Groomed and fed I just dozed away for a while.

This is the Longest Day, and the sky has been bright since very early, which I did not see.

The reason for the sloth this morning was easy to find.  Last night I began to watch Scotland playing Georgia, a 7:45 kick off time.  However, before the game began there had been an almighty cloudburst and 6 days worth of heavy rain fell in a couple of hours.  Now, major football grounds have systems to remove rainwater falling during a game, this was too much for Hampden however, and some decisions had to be made before the game went ahead.  

In spite of Michael Stewart constantly referring to having played in worse, which was a lie, the water was forming huge puddles, the ball did not run, bounce or flow, there was indeed now ay to play in such circumstances.

UEFA however insisted the game went ahead.

Players splashed about in dire conditions, Scotland even scored a goal, but the ref then left the field and we began well over two hours of debate as to whether the game ought to continue, or be abandoned and play again the next night in Paisley.  Any sensible person would play the next night.

UEFA insisted the game continued.

So we saw the ground staff, ball boys, volunteers aplenty attempt to brush the excess water from the field.  Eventually, well after 9:15 pm the game restarted.  Georgia were far from pleased, and quite rightly, and they were even more unhappy when Scotland scored a second goal and eventually ran out winners by 2-0.

The game finished at 11:20 pm, at lest what I made it, the crowd had remained throughout, they had paid their tickets and no information was forthcoming thanks to UEFA, and many a child was late for school this morning, many a man was asleep at work, and all considered it worth while.

During the waiting time the announcer played music over the Tannoy.  Above we see the list of songs played, many enthusiastically supported by the crowd joining in.  'Don't let it rain on me,' by a Glasgow group, the favourite of the night.

A Special Day

Today as you all realise is a special day, St Andrews Day!  Now I will not wax lyrical about Scots superiority as I don't wish for you to feel inferior, even though as non Scots you are, so Iwill pass this day in a simple manner.  
The ticket above celebrates the first ever football international which was played in Glasgow in 1872. This date is so long ago even our friend Mike Smith was not in attendance!  The score between the Scots heroes and the imperialist upper class twits was 0-0.  This shows how good their goalkeeper had been during the game.  Such internationals between the only two nations playing in such organised football matches became an annual event, one year in England the next in the land of the free.  This continued until during the 1970's the glory of the encounter wore off and Scotland began to look at the wider football world and saw meetings with then 'Auld enemy' of little meaning.  Of course some wish to bring back this game but with the wider scope of football today Scots would be better playing European sides and developing young players, especially in what were once called 'B' internationals.  
In spite of much weeping and gnashing of teeth I only managed to attend  two of these games, both at Hampden Park, Glasgow.  The first finished in a 1-1 draw and I was placed high in what we term the 'Rangers End' under cover from the rain and surrounded by drunken wee Glasgow neds.  The result meant we failed to qualify for the European Championships that year and we were somewhat surprised by the wee neds bursting into drunken tears at the end.  The result meant a lot to drunken Rangers fans in those days.  
We left, I say 'we' but I have no memory of whom I attended the game alongside, we left and made our way down the dangerous slippery slopes and turned to our right heading for the bus.  The one little difficulty here was the stream of thousands from the other end who were making their way to the left.  We crossed though this far from merry throng and followed the right crowd in the right direction.  As we got halfway down we passed one of the common sights in Glasgow at the time, one somewhat imbued individual standing facing the masses heading in the direction directly opposite to he himself.  naturally you and I would move to the correct crowd and follow their movement this joker stayed where he was and by swinging his arms and misusing industrial language requested the thousands to move and let him past.  He may still be there, trampled into the tarmac!    
The next time I managed to get a ten shilling ticket was two years later in 1972, the price had not gone up much in one hundred years you notice so I suspect the early one shilling fee was intended to put off the rougher element.  1972 gave us the second only 0-0 draw in one hundred years of football.  I was there - in 1972 that is.  It was not a great game, the loudest cheer came when the Ayrshire Drum Majorettes (aged between 8 and 80) appeared at half time, short skirts and swinging long sticks, marched in time to the music to the far end of the ground, faced the crowd and went down on one knee.  I believe seven at least had heart attacks at that moment.  There was little else to consider.  Of course I was with three others, one, with an English accent that came from being brought up down south, one with an Edinburgh accent wishing England would score and two of us trying to make sure these two did not get too close to Rob Roy MacGregor wearing the 'See You Jimmy' cap and confused drunken expression just in case he lashed out.  The other joy of Hampden in those days was ensuring you stood between the crush barriers.  These tended to collapse with age and with 137,500 tickets handed in (only 135,000 had been printed by the organisers) and you stood where you would survive if one or other went.  
We avoided the crush afterwards by heading into town, amongst the crush.  This meant waiting next to a police horse slavering at both ends with one of Glasgow's finest psychpathic polis sitting upon it.  The joys of football crowds!  Today all has changed.  The slippery slopes have been replaced, seating is compulsory for safety reasons and only 50,000 or so attend.  Some wish to bring back standing at football matches because of a rose tinted view of the past, I say no, not for any crowd over 5000, it is just to dangerous.
So we celebrate St Andrew in the usual Scots way, we mention it and just get on with life.  Not like the drunken Irish who celebrate St Patrick ( a Welshman) who they care little about nor the English who's imperialism wishes to bring back a celebration of St George, a man born in Armenia!  I wonder if they would let him in as a migrant?
Happy St Andrews Day anyway.