D'ja know one thing that really pisses me off? (well, one thing amongst many dozens of other things but let's just do one today) - it's the commercialisation and gentrification of "stuff". Things that were once part of day-to-day Everyman's life that now sit at the Gentry's table. If history has taught us anything, and lets be honest, as a race we tend to largely ignore most of it, it's that eventually the things that first belonged to the ordinary folks get stolen by, re-badged and re-packaged for the rich kids.
Sport is absolutely rife with examples of this theft. The most obvious and glaring example of which is the beautiful game of association football. Football's roots are firmly embedded in the working mans past. Played by factory workers at break times in hobnailed boots, in the factory grounds, thirty players each side, no holds barred, jumpers for goal posts, next goal wins, blood and thunder aggression until the back-to-work whistle sounded. (It wasn't but you get the point)
Back in the day Saturdays were all about the match. You'd walk down the road to your local team's ground, queue up and pay your few quid to get in and stand shoulder to shoulder with friends, colleagues, family and strangers alike. If you were lucky you would be tall enough to see over the people in front of you, or luckier still, be near the front and get pitch side. If you were unlucky you'd be kinda crushed underneath the sweaty blokes armpits, get fag ash dropped in your hair and burns on your forearms, and probably get urinated on by one (or more) random strangers behind you.
But that'd all be part of the match day jeopardy and experience. Pissy pockets was pretty much a right of passage, an invaluable lesson in the journey from Boy to Man. Trust me, you'd only let it happen once before developing the sixth sense about who has the mini-bladder and who's got the six pint, two hour capacity. And - by the way - you never, ever warn a Noob as to which is which - let them find out for themselves. That'll teach them to be wearing short sleeved tee shirts, stonewashed jeans and white kicks in the first place.
Back before the all seater restrictions of today, you'd be stood up, caught in the ebb and flow as the game went on, carried on the waves of human movement. Every corner, attack, crunching tackle would take you left, right, up, down and around from where you first stood. A goal for your team would move you further and faster than you could possible imagine. But no one cared. At full time you'd find each other again and - depending on your experience - compare bruises and the cleanliness and dryness of your attire.
Football is a tribal thing. you are either "Us" or "Them". If you are Us you are welcomed into the fold. If you are Them then fuck off to your own side of the ground/town/country. It's that simple. And herein lies my first problem with the "modern game" . What the actual fuck is the rationale behind the "half and half" scarf? My Team is My Team. That is who I'm there to support. They are my heroes. My warriors going out to battle on my behalf. My chosen ones. My champions. They are the ones I will chant for, sing for, swear at, cajole, castigate and congratulate.
In what reality was it deemed appropriate that I should wear the name and colours of my opponents? I'm there to see them bloodied and beaten. Humiliated and humbled. Sent back to their homes ashamed to speak of the events again. Too embarrassed to show their faces at work on Monday for fear of ridicule. I want them to carry the pain of defeat around on their shoulders like a physical burden at least until their next game.
What I don't want if some fluffy, wooly trinket adorning their body. Giving succour where none should be forthcoming. Giving comfort where none should exist. Some object that does not identify them as a "Them" or us as an "Us". When I am King of the World I will be personally collecting up all "half and half" scarves and burning the lot of them. Ever single fucking one. Just watch me.
Football grounds are safer, and dryer, places to go these days of course and rightly so. But at the very top end of the game it has become a somewhat sterile experience. It's more about the Corporate than the Commoner. Prices rise year after year. Kick off times are at the whim of whichever broadcaster has bid the most dollar. Even the kit colours are dictated more by the weight of the sponsors purse than by any tradition or history.
When I were a lad you had two shirts. Home and Away. Usually one was kinda the opposite of the other. For example if you wore blue at home, you probably wore red away. And vice versa. Nowadays amongst the plethora of options theres a home kit, an away kit, a third kit, a domestic cup kit, a European cup kit, a commemorative kit, a training kit, a warm up kit, a third Thursday of the month kit. It's a joke really. Commercialism at its very worst.
Attending a match in person is a pricey affair and even to simply be an armchair supporter ain't much less these days either. With games available on multiple "paywall" services pretty much seven days a week the detachment from the origins of the game could not be any more stark. The ritual of a Saturday at the top level of football, whilst still part of many peoples weekly life, is far less inclusive and far more elitist that it once was.
Step forward the non league/grassroots clubs. Here you will find less people perhaps but the very essence of the game remains. The tribal rivalry is as fierce between these clubs as it ever was. You get to know the players. Share a laugh and drink a few beers with them after games. Want to be their best friends. (until they show themselves to actually be dicks and you realise their eyes are way too close together and their hair style is in fact rubbish) Whilst you are unlikely to get your pocket pissed in, you will absolutely be identified as Us/Them and suffer the barrage of abuse and torment befitting a rival fan. And rightly so. It's what it's all about.
So that's football done - I'm going to give you a couple more quick examples that you may not have considered of the theft from Everyman to the Elite.
Here's the first: Fagin will tell you that in his day oysters were a poor mans foodstuff. Six for a penny. Sold out of baskets and barrows on the mean dirty street of old London town. Eaten straight outta the shells with your plague covered fingers. Not now. Now they are often found at three for fifty quid in glitzy poncy rest-au-rants, covered in some kinda garlic infused foam and spooned individually into your mouth on the prongs of a solid silver toothpick.
And one more to finish off with. Once upon a time, fermented and distilled juniper berries created a colourless liquid strong enough to strip the paint off the underside of a boat and potent enough to power an internal combustion engine. In recent years gin has now become an increasingly niche forum for one-upmanship. The competition to create the weirdest flavour combinations is a fiercely fought one. The stranger the better. The more expensive this then costs the consumer the better, and the more elitist you can make it the better. How long before the release of the limited edition, thousand pound per bottle, jabuticaba fruit and unicorn jizz flavour?
Although you can probably get both in most corporate boxes at the football (but only if you are wearing your half-and-half scarf. )
Salut!
Comentários