FA Christmas Card Sent To To Oxford City 1976
Two more 1970’s Christmas Cards for Oxford City – one from the Met, the other from Middlesex Wanderers, a club formed in 1905 (the same year as Chelsea) who still specialize in overseas tours. Jersey was slotted in for 2020. Sadly we can safely assume that didn’t happen.
More from the Fred Munday archives! Not directly yuletide related but welcome proof that the odd maverick figure at the upper echelons of the game have been known to reveal a sensibility in line with that of the paying spectator from time to time. More commonly known as Jack, John Woodley not only played over 900 games for Oxford City but also scored over 400 goals, despite spending quite a few seasons at the end of his career playing at centre back, as his knee problems intensified & reduced his mobility to some extent. He was a fabulous player who could undoubtedly have earned a living playing at a higher level, as several FA Cup goals against Football League opposition proved. Hearing QPR’s veteran skipper Frank Mclintock attributed the longevity of his career to taking aspirin prior to a game Jack followed suit in the 1970’s. A knee operation was cancelled when the wear & tear where gristle meets bone was found by the surgeon to be too advanced for any effective repair work to be undertaken. He liked to recuperate post match with a lengthy soak in the team bath, so from the horse’s mouth we knew that in 1979 new manager Bobby Moore’s decision to rip it out & install showers did not go down well! Moore’s arrival subsequently signalled the ending of Jack’s remarkable career at the White House & he slummed it playing cricket with idiots like me for a few years instead. My unbecoming teenage puniness contrasted strongly to Jack’s impressively muscular & toned physique, which many modern day gym narcissists would still kill to replicate today. Reproduced below is a copy of the letter Brian Clough sent on the occasion of his testimonial, having instructed all his first team players to purchase two tickets each for the game, 34 in total. He then promised to match their combined value with a separate donation himself. A hugely flawed man he may have been, but his failure to kow tow to suits like Harold Thompson, allied to gestures such as this, only serve to reveal how much closer Cloughie was to understanding the true meaning of the game, & matching the mindset of the fan, than just about any other major figure of the game in my lifetime. Liverpool’s legendary Bill Shankley is his only rival here as far as I can see. Wonderful characters both, & this was a magnificent gesture from the extraordinary Mr Clough.
Another card from the FA, signed by chairman Sir Harold Thompson & secretary Ted Croker. Thompson never came across as a pleasant individual, callously sacking our only World Cup winning manager Sir Alf Ramsay with what appeared to be dismissive contempt. “He was a bastard. He treated the staff like shit” according to one FA official at the time. Not really a ringing endorsement. Thompson was an Oxford chemistry don which obviously left him superbly equipped to deal with the thorny issues of the day, including rampant hooliganism & safety within stadiums, not to mention hiring & firing for the top managerial post in English professional football. That’s right. Professional football. It was no longer 1856 but nobody appeared to have told the FA. The brash, arrogant & brilliant Brian Clough was never going to get the England job during Sir Harold’s time at the Lancaster Gate helm, & the crooked, mercenary but doubtless suitably servile Don Revie duly took over from Ramsay with disastrous results. Our World Cup winning captain Bobby Moore retired in 1977 & had to wait 3 years for a managerial opportunity – at Oxford City. A fine way to treat a national hero, who most countries would have fast tracked into the international coaching set up. Posthumous statues & stand naming are all very well but where were you West Ham Utd by the way, while your most distinguished former player lapsed into near obscurity? Bobby’s middle name was Chelsea, & his son Dean ran the Imperial Arms on the King’s Road in the 1990’s, famously the favourite pre-match Guinness quaffing waterhole of late vice chairman Matthew Harding, still a hero to many Blues fans, alternatively an evil man if your name is Ken Bates. One of Thompson’s Oxford chemistry students was Margaret Thatcher. Ted Croker stood up to her after the Heysel tragedy in 1985 & was duly denied the obligatory knighthood usually awared to retiring FA secretaries. Typically petty & spiteful behaviour from Thatcher but never forget that Croker was Eric Dier’s grandfather. Dier looks & behaves on a football pitch like one of those big, thick playground bullies who got a rise out of painfully flicking the ears of tormented smaller boys. As if playing for Spurs wasn’t bad enough in itself. Mourinho likes him of course. Mourinho would. He has been known himself to enjoy the cowardly gouging of rival coaches in the eye with a finger. They all get together in the end.
One from local rivals Oxford United. Rather cheap & nasty paper quality in truth, times were hard at the Manor Ground in the latter part of the 1970’s! Competitive games between the two clubs have been fairly rare though I do recall United squeezing past their Isthmian League opponents in an Oxfordshire Senior Cup Final in the mid 1970’s, two late goals sparing their blushes after Martin Gilligan had given City a shock lead. In 1980, after the non-league game escaped the ankle chains of phoney amatuerism that the likes of old school tie tosspots like Thompson had imposed on it deep into the 1970’s, City made a futile attempt at buying their way to success. From Sir Harold Thompson to Sir Harry Redknapp, the devil & the deep blue sea anyone? Old soaks like Spurs defender Phil Beal & John Frazer of Fulham rolled up once a week to help City get relegated, reputedly on then handsome £90-£100 a game wages. I cannot verify the actual transfer fee for Trevor Francis’s move from Birmingham City to Nottingham Forest in 1978, the most significant of the age as it is widely believed to be the first £1 million fee exchanged between two British clubs. However, I can confirm, via my brief, inglorious junior banking career, that in 1980 I saw a cheque for £4,000 confirming the transfer of centre half Andy Bodel from Oxford United to City. Unthinkable, in fact illegal, a few years earlier. Before the decade was out City were evicted from their long term home & out of business, landlords Brasenose College losing patience after members of the club hierarchy had ignored repeated requests not to conduct private business matters unrelated to Oxford City from the ground. Then architects of their own downfall, happily they successfully reformed, but in truth sympathy for them seemed surprisingly thin on the ground at the time.
“Scratch any cynic and you will find a disappointed idealist.”―
I unreservedly adore the evocative image of small boys playing football next to a lamppost as shown at the top of this page. Sadly date & location are not recorded on the Christmas card from the FA it appears on. It was rescued from the bin at the White House Ground, then home to Oxford City, alongside various other yuletide greetings included above, by my grandfather. There is a primary school opposite my flat & once upon a time I would make my way home from the shops & smile indulgently over its hedgerow as the kids noisily played out the latest attack v defence playground thriller, the one goal being the perennial painted bar & post on a concrete wall. The pleasures were entirely innocent from all sides but the hedgerow has long since been left to grow to a height disabling the view of the school playground. Denying visual access to grown men is probably more than a coincidental side effect of this tactic. Currently unemployed, I have recently been trying to ward off a growing sense of my own irrelevance & uselessness in the eyes of society by picking litter along the nearby streets & cycle paths. It’s been an eye opener as disposable masks & gloves have joined the perennially discarded items, bottles, cans & hypodermics supplemented occasionally by disposable nappies & on one occasion a dead, presumably baited badger in a huge white plastic bag. Sadly the internet means I am denied the pleasure of retrieving the torn up pages from porno mags, once a prime feature of the landscape, now residing in the English street missing items file along with white dog shit & indeed stray dogs, likely the predominant suppliers of said shit. Collecting the litter stick & relevant plastic sacks involved a long walk taking me past my own primary school, my destination being a stone’s throw away from Oxford United’s old ground in Headington. The school field on which we played football has been concreted over now, an act of bureaucratic vandalism that I can never forgive. Our year left the school in 1973 but not before we had supported the government’s ‘Plant A Tree in ’73’ campaign, launched in the wake of Dutch Elm disease wreaking havoc on millions of UK trees. A new one was duly planted on the the approach to our beloved football pitch. I had been with my ex Chelsea partner in crime Bill on the last occasion I had witnessed the concrete hell with which time & the council have replaced both tree & pitch. ‘Plant a fucking tree for ’73’ was Bill’s succinct summary of the current, soulless vision. You could look over the hedgerow & watch the football there too back in the day, & unbeknown to me my mum was doing just that when I scored my first ever goal, as a ten year old playing for the third years against our triumphant double winning school team. It was a belter too. She would have missed that moment were it to happen now. Then again there is no pitch for it to happen on anyway. Adjacent to the school field further along the road was an alleyway next to a small play area. Rather unimaginatively we called it Shit Alley as its pavement was always liberally coated with dog faeces in various states of decomposition. Both Shit Alley & the play area have survived, a small crumb of comfort for Village Green Preservation Society types like me, not to mention lazy owners of incontinent dogs. Having collected my litter tools I made my way home via a different route, laden down with a sense of melancholy that the days of my school field & Oxford United at the Manor Ground are both long gone. How I wish they weren’t, but to quote Billie Bob Thornton’s brilliantly portrayed, dark hearted Willie in Bad Santa, possibly the greatest cinematic yuletide cynic ever, ‘wish in one hand, shit in the other. See which fills up first.’ However, even Willie finds some sort of redemption at the end of the first film (we shall not speak of the sequel, a veritable stinker that is not even salvaged by the presence of the glorious Christina Hendricks) & before I have left Headington a semblance of the same is glimpsed for me. I cut through Rock Edge, a nature reserve, & on the grassy area at its borders are four lads having an after school kick around. Older than the small boys in the photo at the top, 13-14 at a guess, but entertaining themselves with nothing other than a football nonetheless, a commonplace sight in my youth but rarer than a Penny Black nowadays. On the corner of the entrance to Rock Edge, next to the busy main road, stands a house that once belonged to Arthur Turner, the Oxford United manager when I first started going to football. Arthur had once managed a team to an FA Cup Final, namely Birmingham City in 1956, a game now immortalized by the victorious opposition goalkeeper, Man City’s Bert Trautmann, playing on with a broken neck. Trautman had once been part of the Luftwaffe but refused repatriation after WW2 & overcame much hostility to become a much loved figure in English football. Arthur Turner took Oxford from the Southern League to the old Division 2 so is rightly a revered figure in the club’s history. I like the idea of his ghost looking through the back window of his old house & seeing these lads, school uniforms & bags in situ, keeping the dream alive. The litter picking has its consolations too. Rare is the day that nobody thanks me for doing it, or beeps on a car horn & offers a cheery thumbs up. It would seem there is no need to give up on humanity just yet. Not all of it anyway.
Balancing the need for precaution against the safeguarding of personal freedoms has never been a more vexed issue than in this pandemic year. The rights & wrongs of mask wearing & lockdowns have triggered constant, furious debate. Keeping children off the streets & away from potential predators has long been a preoccupation of the nation’s parents. Understandably so, although evidence that there are more paedophiles on the street than in my childhood appear relatively thin on the ground. At the age of 8 I would regularly return home as dusk beckoned or had called, from mass kickabouts on local recs, the golf course, & once a week the patch of grass near our cub scout hut behind the church. Parents seemed relatively unconcerned back then, & as it is today the kids were more usually in greater danger of abuse when back within the walls of the family home. Nonetheless, there is no judgements to be made here, especially from a non-parent like myself. Relatively rare it thankfully may be, but child abduction is a terrible thing & societal criticism of perceived lapses in parental judgement are swift & merciless. My nephew is now in his early ’30’s & a father of two himself, but in his childhood computer games had already become a major consumer of youth leisure time. Nevertheless he would sometimes take to the street with friends for a kick around. On one occasion an aggrieved neighbour called a halt because a man was taking pictures of them. This sounds sinister. It may have been sinister. However, at one time I used to carry my smaller camera around in the streets of Oxford to capture the sights & sounds of spontaneous street activity & colour. I would have loved to stumble across a game of football taking place in the street, & would have wanted to take pictures. The memory of this incident would have stopped me in my tracks though. My guerilla photo antics stalled long ago anyway due to another reason, namely a marked absence of talent. The man photographing my nephew & his friends may have been a pederast. Then again, he may have been attempting to capture a moment of youthful exuberance in the same way the FA Christmas card of 1976 did so sublimely. Hats off to whoever took it. Illusory it may well be, but it gives the appearance of representing if not a more innocent age then certainly a less cynical one.
I like the definition of cynicism outlined by the late American comedian George Carlin, although like the virus, it is a disease offering many mutations & the Carlin variant is one of the more flattering ones, possibly with a bit of self mythology thrown in. Its author was clearly something of a cynic himself. The football world is no more immune than any human activity where money rears its ugly head. Because fans are imbued with concepts of love & loyalty to their clubs they find the cheerful pursuit of cold, hard cash from the sport’s players, managers & administrators hard to stomach but doubtless many are happy to change their own place of work when more lucrative opportunities are presented to them. Football is a short career & players do not always have the same love of the game as fans, let alone a sense of long term duty to the team they represent. Fans tend to have a purer love of the game, the match going supporter the most pristine example. The investment in time & money required to attend matches across the country (&, for those at the top end, the continent) is huge, impacting hugely on income, family life, spare time & working arrangements. This is not helped by the constant tinkering with kick off times by the football authorities & television companies. At the moment the pandemic has halted all this for much of the year, but the devotees are not grateful. They make the sacrifices because they love their club, & the current crisis clearly imperils the future of many clubs. At the top end the suspicion grows that removing the fans may suit many. This is foolish. Fans responding to the action in the stadium is a vital part of the entertainment. I feel myself losing interest in the game as a whole in the face of endless opportunities to watch matches played in largely empty stadiums. The backdown of the television companies regarding the recent pay per view controversy is telling. Long term this unfulfilling spectacle has no future. We need full stadiums again as soon as it is safe to happen. For many years fans were treated as an unwanted inconvenience & it ended in stadium disasters & multiple deaths. It is vital for the soul of the sport a different mistake is not made this time, namely any misguided belief that the money machine will keep churning regardless of spectator presence at big games.
We shouldn’t pretend that cynicism is a new phenomenon in sport, nor that it is confined entirely to its top levels. My grandfather retired in 1972 & for the next five years he would divide his time between watching a new afternoon ITV drama called Emmerdale Farm (an altogether gentler, less action packed entity than it is now!) doing a cleaning job at the bingo hall & helping out at Oxford City. A lick of paint on the fencing & buildings here, a swept terrace there, allied to the saving of otherwise unwanted ephemera. As the only other option seems to have been watching Amos Brearly & Mr Wilks bicker behind the bar of The Woolpack he was probably glad to get out of the house. The bingo job enabled him to supply us with ample spare bottles of Cresta, a soft drink of various unpleasant fruit flavours, produced by Schweppes & famously advertised by a badly animated bear with the byline it’s frothy man.
It was frothy as I recall. And revolting. The Christmas cards & programmes from Oxford City were more welcome, though his treament by the club left a similarly unpleasant aftertaste. He gave his time & labour free & for love. Of course. He was a true fan. The love may be unrequited but that didn’t put him off. When he became ill Oxford City were conspicuous by their absence. He had spells when he was well enough that some small gesture, say the offer of a lift to an away game, would have been treated with glee & gratitude. Nothing doing. Out of sight out of mind. For all the annual rosy cheeked, rosette wearing, rattle waving representation the suspiciously large turnout of non league fans get in the FA Cup from avaricious tv companies, desperate to see a big club get its pants pulled down, there isn’t much romance about the way smaller clubs operate further down the chain. Egotistical, often unscrupulous owners & players lured away to rival clubs at the drop of a hat are as commonplace as in the full time game. It is merely the size of the wedges that differ from the bigger boys. By the time John Woodley played the last of his 900 games in 1979 the Amateur Cup had disappeared & players were at last being openly being paid at that level of the game. My future brother in-law briefly played at the White House Ground in this era, but subsequently enjoyed a nomadic career, taking a few bob extra when he could as he moved from club to club. This has become the norm & nobody stays long enough to play 900 games for one team these days. Who knows what decisions John Woodley would have made had his magnificent career started 15 years later than it did but he may well not have stayed in one place for the duration.
Not everyone exploited their new mercenary opportunities with intelligence. One lad I had once played alongside boasted of the £2 a week rise he had received (£10 to £12) when moving from one local club to Wallingford. Sadly, Wallingford was a 28 mile round journey from his home in Oxford. It had not occurred to him that the inconvenience & cost of this extra travel rather negated the value of his princely salary increase. When Oxford City chose to go for glory & spent handsomely recruiting unwisely, one, now legendary, footballing money guzzler was rather ungrateful. Bobby Moore a footballing god, should never have been expected to cut his managerial teeth at such a lowly level. The fact that he was prepared to try speaks volume about the famous humility of the man. Harry Redknapp was a different kettle of fish. Twenty years after arriving as Moore’s assistant he was still whingeing about the allegedly awful salary on offer, quoting in the process an amount that would have sufficed for many a skilled worker in the late 1970’s, let alone a rookie coach failing at an already struggling Isthmian League team. The jam roly-poly enthusiast & future king of Ant & Dec’s annual crocodile cock eating circus was a resourceful fella even then in fairness. My cousin was a youth team player (& a West Ham fan to boot) & Harry was known to fling open the boot of his car at training sessions & pursue a neat line of second income via selling the selection of trainers contained therein. He isn’t the cleverest member of the Redknapp clan though. That award surely goes to Rosie, now sadly deceased, the family bulldog who managed to open a Monaco bank account earlier this century, depositing £189K into it in the process. We had a dog called Rosie. Good at chasing balls & chewing extremely large tree branches but no financial acumen whatsoever. Hopeless. As a player with limited first team action in the previous 6 or 7 years, the opportunity to learn the ropes alongside Moore might have seemed welcome. Harry has always been a master of self promotion though. Highly regarded by many in the game ( Brett Ormerod at Southampton & former West Ham playing & managerial colleague Billy Bonds seem to be exceptions but nobody leaves football with no enemies) he has subsequently had a long, very high profile managerial career. Just the one trophy though, the FA Cup with Portsmouth in 2008. It took him nearly 30 years to achieve what Bobby Gould managed at unfancied Wimbledon in a year back in 1988. Gould went on to manage Wales but neither jam roly-poly salesmen nor Little Ant & Dec have ever subsequently beaten a path to his front door. There are no sold out evenings with Bobby Gould at your local theatre. Redknapp lives in Sandbanks, the desirable millionaire’s row looking out over the sea at Poole. That supposedly paltry salary a small club paid him as he started out in management at Oxford City doesn’t seem to have done him too much harm. A couple of years before my dad died in 2011 Harry turned up at nearby Barton On Sea following inclement weather in search of an open golf course. The course there was indeed open, but the conditions meant there were restrictions in place. Harry duly tried to arrange a discount. On failing to procure one he drove off in a huff without troubling its fairways, a millionaire cutting his nose off to spite his face for the sake of a few quid. This is the man who threw a fit at a reporter labelling him a wheeler dealer in the transfer deadline market, which he famously & transparently was. His angry response only amplified the high level of the man’s deluded self image. In many ways Redknapp’s managerial career is the template for attitudes within modern football. Fair play, it’s been his livelihood & his overriding commitment has been to furthering his own career & maximising its financial potential. Doubtless many football fans approach their own careers the same way, but what is nauseating is the insincere badge kissing duplicity of players within the game in recent years, & the voice of the fan transplanted to the dugout schtick as perfected by the likes of Redknapp. Doubtless he loves the game but he isn’t a fan. He’s a businessman, albeit one who may sometimes have sailed close to the wind on occasions. Fine as far as it goes but all the everyman patter in the world shouldn’t con anyone. He has profited from the loyalty of football fans rather than represented them. Oxford City were a better team & club in the decades before Harry & his ilk rolled up, even if shackled by the ludicrous limitations of amateur status. I am glad my grandfather got to support them during those years rather than the ones that followed.
Dear old Harry – no stone left unturned in the pursuit of a pound
In the earlier part of the 1970’s the upper echelons of non-league football maintained the pretence of amatuerism, along with Rugby Union & Athletics. Rugby Union players who turned pro & migrated north to play Rugby League were prevented even from coaching kids afterwards. I think the word is draconian. Cricketers were only paid for the months they played in the summer & many had to seek other employment through the rest of the year. The Kerry Packer breakaway series announced in 1977 was the key to ensuring better financial packages for its star players. Until then the rewards, even at that level, were relatively piffling. The ’80’s heralded the sweeping away of many of the barriers erected by old school tie elitism, administrators reluctant to move their sports forward & properly reward the performers, those who actually attracted people through the stadium gates. Ian Botham, the first English superstar cricketer to emerge following the Packer revolution, although he didn’t join it, once referred to the MCC dinosaurs still living in the Gentleman v Players era as ‘gin swilling old dodderers.’
Finally, & in case it seems I have entirely removed the Chelsea from Chelsea blog, I give you, for the second time in three years, an old Christmas card from the club. It depicts the great Gianfranco Zola hitting one of those sublime free kicks over a wall of snowmen while wearing a Christmas hat. Gianfranco, like Harry Redknapp, also managed West Ham for a while. He remains one of the least cynical of modern footballers, warming the cockles of your heart with his behaviour on & off the pitch. Would there were more like him. Some other once revered sporting talents of yore have let themselves down quite badly during the pandemic. If you thought ex Southampton & England maverick Matthew Le Tissier was an admirable one off throwback during his 1980’s & 90’s heyday then join the club. He always came across as a good bloke too. Sadly he has revealed himself as a deeply odd individual of late, dismissing both the seriousness of the COVID19 outbreak & many reasonable online counter arguments, blocking some showing mild dissension to his viewpoint or employing rows of that scornful, sniggering emoji often favoured by the smug. Having angered many with his contempt for intelligent debate he then made a po faced video denouncing those who have trolled & abused him, laughably presenting himself as a victim. Abuse is never justified but when you block, demean & ignore the courteous you are swimming in murky waters yourself. Ashes 2005 hero Michael Vaughan has always come across as a narcissistic, arrogant prat but he has also outdone himself this time. During the first lockdown he & Le Tissier gave themselves away by making it clear that a main grievance was being prevented from playing golf. As men of some affluence who can doubtless self isolate with rather more space at their disposal than the rest of us these entitled buffoons might have been well advised to keep their gobs shut & count their considerable blessings. They haven’t even got the Noel Gallagher plea of mitigation that he squandered the last remaining family brain cell snorting those mountains of cocaine that can only be the explanation for 1997’s abysmal Be Here Now, presumably also the reason he has struggled since to write anything other than songs that Badfinger wouldn’t have considered for a B side, or indeed wiped their arse on. Apparently not wearing a mask & ignoring social distancing means it is ‘on him’ should he contract the virus. The elephant in the room is of course that in the process he might infect & kill others, is aware of this & basically doesn’t care. Live Forever eh? This Man City fan (when it suits him) may not be a sportsman but as Sky prepared us for a Liverpool-City Carabao Cup final a few years ago with a lengthy interview between this nobhead & Jamie Carragher I include his vile contribution to the pandemic debate here too. Vaughan put up a truly execrable Instagram post online in October showing a host of WW2 bomber planes & announcing that the weekend’s changing of the clocks should see them all put back to 1944 when the country ‘had some balls’ – pleasingly there was a swift riposte to this nonsense, which pointed out that Michael was born in 1974 rather than 1944 & that as the Advanced Hair Studio disciple had shat his bigoted, foppish pants as soon as a few strands of hair started dropping from his empty head then perhaps the days of the Luftwaffe & ration books might not have been to his liking. I suppose he could have tried rubbing powdered egg into his scalp. God alone knows what the late Bert Trautmann, the man who served in the Luftwaffe & played on in a cup final with a broken neck, would have made of lame, ill considered, halfwitted guff like this. There are a lot of entitled cretins like Noel, Matt & Michael around. Let’s briefly entertain Twitter cliche & say don’t be like Noel, Matt & Michael. We are now back to 1,000 deaths a day as a new mutation of the disease takes hold. The NHS may soon be overwhelmed. Dark days lie ahead. Perhaps one of these three will show some humility this time. Perhaps not. Vaughan has already been querying restrictions on playing golf. One time dope smoking scourge of the cricketing establishment, the recently ennobled Ian Botham, has become something of a reactionary pillar of warped nationalism himself these days. Lord Revitive of Almeria owes his elevation to the House Of Lords to either his impressive & relentless charity walking endeavours in the past, or a stunningly hypocritical commitment to Brexit, depending on what you read &/or choose to believe. Now a Spanish resident Botham is apparently happy to wave the Union Jack while living in another country, denying us plebs the same opportunity for future free movement in Europe that he has clearly enjoyed. He is as drearily boorish now as he was inspirational during his cricketing pomp. In a radio debate on fox hunting with Al Murray a few years ago, he responded to the latter querying the fetishistic need to dress up & hunt in packs to terrorize foxes rather than shooting them. ‘Waste of a bullet’ was the stupid & surly reply from arguably the most dynamic & exciting English sportsman of his generation. Seemingly more Gammon than Beefy these days, he may guzzle his own wine brand rather than swill gin but nowadays he frequently resembles those he once despised. The Al Murray incident revealed a dismal talent for maintaining an intelligent level of debate so I don’t think the great parliamentary orators have to much to fear from this latest representative of the blonde manbaby’s latest appointments to Westminster. Thanks for lighting up my teenage years Lord B but perhaps you should stay in Spain. Many of us might like to in the future. Thanks to people like you that won’t be possible. Cheers.
Thank God then for Marcus Rashford. His campaign may not be as cuddly & Tory friendly as dear old Captain Tom’s undoubtedly delightful fund raising but he has managed to marry philanthropy to a serious, polite, determined, avowedly non-party political & most importantly successful interrogation of the government’s refusal to ensure schoolkids from poor families are being fed. The validity of his campaign has now been backed up by UNICEF’s recent financial intervention concerning the same issue. It is an intervention that shames us all, apart from top hatted twat Jacob Rees-Mogg, another Westminster parasite as free of shame as he is a chin. The only cynicism in the Rashford campaign comes from his sour, wrongfooted detractors, who seem to resent the fact that a rich young black footballer can also find time to invest in property to ensure his own family’s future at the same time. Does a principled stance mean the man has to falsely wander round in sackloth & ashes? Why? Rashford scored a hat trick in a Champions League game a couple of months ago but was back posting on the child poverty campaign within half an hour of the final whistle. Man of the year for sure.
Perhaps Harry Redknapp could chip in to to the campaign & supply him with some jam roly-polys….
Oxford City announced the sad news that John Woodley had died via social media earlier this week. He had been unwell for some time. RIP Jack.