Cup Final Preview

Cup Final Preview

They were, I think, better days. Simpler days, anyway. Every Cup Final was played in glorious sunshine. Curtains were drawn so you could see the telly. The game was always described by the cliché-prone broadcasters as a “great day out for the fans”.

That's exactly what it was. The result was decided the night before.

Not only was all day Saturday devoted to Cup Final telly, on both channels, the telly-fest started on the Friday night, with the inspiringly named “Who Will Win The Cup”. One of the pundits was always Jackie Charlton. Not a fence-sitter, Jackie. His colours were not just plainly displayed, they were hammered to the mast with loads of six inch nails, rivets, chains, and whatever other fixings came to hand. Comic genius, because while the others would argue the pros and cons, agonise over strengths and weaknesses, Jackie would steamroller their timidity, and just come out with, as if it were just so obvious there was no need to pad out a half hour show with all that rubbish...and...whoever he declared home, hosed, and bound to win (sell the family jewels and (thanks Danny Baker) your Grandmother's War Medals and get down the bookies right now – this isn't gambling, it's like finding money in the street), invariably, without fail, went on to lose.

So, the result was never in question. I'm not sure that there were actually the 'home' and 'away' changing rooms decided by tossing a coin, as legend had it, but a joyful Not Jackie's Tip changing room, and a despondent one, with Jackie's Tip players dolefully putting on their boots and pulling on their shirts.

There was Cup Final It's A Knockout, with teams from the towns, cities or localities represented in the final contesting a series of unlikely games featuring running around on slippery surfaces with buckets of water. Think Gladiators for simpler times. Stuart (Rolf's cellmate) Hall and Eddie Waring were the commentators.

There may have been Cup Final Question of Sport Specials, a sporting quiz that, sadly, didn't have Rory Bremner or Nick Hancock, but, happily, didn't have James Cordon.

The Prime Minister (then, we had Prime Ministers, since thatcher we have prime ministers) would always be in attendance, as would the royal family (and I don't mean Ricky Tomlinson and that woman who was married to Hooky out of New Order). But what I remember most was that the place came to a standstill. There were fewer cars around, and virtually none were moving on cup final day. If (and it was an 'if', not a when) there was the odd person out abroad and not watching the game, that was a truly odd person. Like an escapee from somewhere secure with no sharp objects like cocktail sticks allowed, or that bloke with the bag of congealed sweets and the imaginary puppies.

It's funny. Just as football has gone from deeply unfashionable to very fashionable indeed, the exclusivity of the football in-club has become more elitist. MM and I can spend hours, even days, talking football. It is an international language, but like all languages, there's no instant road to fluency, and there is the fluency spectrum. With fashionability comes the understone crawlers, claiming a degree of knowledge and commitment they quickly give away as false. I don't have anything against the bloke who is a recent and enthusiastic convert, but when he bangs on and on despite not being able to recognise a wingback from a wide-mid / fullback approach, well, shoot him, someone, please.

Anyway, back in the day, us simple folk were over the moon to have coverage of just who was sick as a parrot, who couldn't hit an elephant's arse with a double bass, and who was doing the lap of honour with the lid of the cup as a hat. All in glorious black and white.