What the Fxxx

Prompted by Barney Ronay’s column in the Guardian sports section this morning, “Chants in a Million”, I thought back to the days on the terraces when it seemed to be OK to say whatever came into your head and express it at the top of your voice. What was commonplace at the match was not necessarily permissible anywhere else, however. I had once imagined that this was effectively a socially acceptable safety valve for people who did nasty or boring jobs all week to let off steam on Saturday afternoon, and that it was probably better than taking out deep-seated frustrations with one’s circumstances on others at another time - and perhaps more physically. I think now, that this was a horribly misguided and naïve hope on my part.

We didn’t just save our ire for footballers, however. We used to yell insults at steam locomotives that were commonplace. City of Stoke on Trent became City of Shit on Toast and the Flying Dutchman was renamed the Flying Dustbin. Regular visitors to Crewe station that we had seen many times before were met with “thumbs down” signals, V-signs and shouts of “relic” or “stink”, as their numbers became evident when they drifted into view. Footplate crews no doubt either showed us withering disdain or, more likely, ignored us completely.

At the match, the emphasis now is rightly on campaigns to eradicate the scourge of racism. In the past, I would admit to having not thought too deeply about the airing of prejudices as part of wide-ranging chants, insults and downright abuse aimed at those on the pitch - some of it very crude and personal - as long as what was being said struck me as being funny. I know that this was never acceptable criteria for judgement, but in a sense it’s too late, so I’m stuck with my personal attempts at revisionism.

I remember a specific instance from the bad old days - except that I find that it was only a decade ago and I’d imagined it was much longer. Everton were at home to West Ham and we were seated near the front - in the area that used to be called the paddock when we stood there as youngsters. Anyone who goes to football knows that players are very vulnerable to abuse when the ball goes out for a throw-in. So, it was for Luis Boa Morte Pereira. “Fxxx off, you. You fxxxxxx French txxx”, came the tirade from just alongside us. This would have been extremely unfunny, of course, except that Boa Morte is Portuguese.

John Dyer’s picture of City of S on T was taken at Chester on a Holyhead to Euston express in March 1962.