Whether a hangover from the ‘let it all hang out’ mantra in evidence at numerous outdoor pop festivals in the early 70s or simply a symptom of bored narcissists acting the clown, when streaking became a craze in 1974 it was…erm…stripped of any ‘radical’ hippie associations and was instead regarded as the latest gimmick of the attention-seeking prankster. After all, by the mid-70s, most gestures that had possessed a politically radical edge in the late 60s had well and truly had those edges smoothed out; and deciding to run onto the field naked at a packed stadium was seen as more Benny Hill than Woodstock, something to laugh at rather than be viewed as symbolic of the decline and fall of Western civilization. Ray Stevens’ chart-topping 1974 hit, ‘The Streak’ was very much in this vein, being the archetypal 70s comedy record and not exactly a ‘protest song’. After a bearded streaker was captured on camera being escorted from the pitch at Twickenham in April of that year – and a conscientious policeman had famously invented a novel new use for his helmet – many top sporting events covered on television suddenly appeared to attract chaps prone to getting their kit off in public. And it was primarily chaps who were into this streaking lark; Erika Roe’s 15 minute-stint in the spotlight at Twickenham in 1982 was something of an anomaly.
Obviously, streaking in Britain was primarily a summer sport, which meant it honed in on venues hosting cricket. No game seemed more susceptible to streaking than cricket. An especially unforgettable example of John Arlott’s masterful ability to cope with the unexpected occurred at Lord’s in 1975, when a streaker interrupted play between England and Australia. Despite strangely referring to the streaker as a ‘freaker’, Arlott responded to the sudden apparition by declaring, ‘And it’s masculine, and I would think it’s seen the last of its cricket for the day.’ Television producers – and viewers – were less squeamish back then; cameras didn’t cut away with the commentator issuing an apology along the lines of ‘Well, we’re sure the viewers at home don’t want to see that’; no, the whole performance was beamed into the nation’s living rooms as a comedy interlude far more entertaining than rain stopping play; I also have a memory of the moment when the streaker leapt over the wicket even being incorporated into the opening titles of the highlights programme at the time.
Streaking has experienced occasional revivals over the years, but along with flared trousers and platform heels, it’s never really caught on in quite the same way as first time round. There was a lone wolf who routinely indulged around 20-25 years ago, most memorably at the 2003 UEFA Cup Final in Seville; as Glasgow Celtic were finalists, the game was televised live on the BBC, though the commentator had to emphasise the BBC was using a feed from Spanish TV when the streaker appeared and his charge around the pitch as the police gave chase was tracked by the cameras. The Spaniards clearly didn’t regard a silly man interrupting proceedings with his tackle on display as something to induce cardiac arrests in those tuning-in across Europe, unlike the BBC’s ‘it’s got nothing to do with us’ disclaimer. The character in question making a habit of regularly streaking at prominent sporting events made it look as though he was a professional with a premeditated plan rather than an amateur responding spontaneously to favourable conditions, so his actions were different to those that had provided light relief in the 70s.
As stated previously, streaking had no radical elements to it, let alone political ones; interruptions to sport that have a political agenda are a different beast altogether. The likes of Suffragette Emily Davison at the 1913 Derby is too distant to trace a straight line to the modern era, but perhaps the first such protests of a manner we’d find familiar today occurred during UK tours by the South African rugby and cricket teams in 1969 and 1970, when the British Anti-Apartheid movement (including South African exile and future Labour Minister Peter Hain) took direct action at a time when governments were still reluctant to impose the blanket ban on South Africa’s sportsmen and women that came into force just a few years later. Despite strong opposition in some quarters, most recognised the iniquities of racially-divided societies in South Africa and Rhodesia for what they were and the Anti-Apartheid protests could be said to have helped bring about an expulsion from international competition that eventually led to the end of those regimes – even if it took a good few years. Recently, there’s been a resurrection of direct action at sporting events, though – unlike the Anti-Apartheid protests – any sympathy with the promoters of the cause in question rests very much with the minority as opposed to the majority.
Whereas a public sector union on strike can disrupt the lives of the public when taking industrial action, there is nevertheless always a degree of support amongst some members of that public re the unions’ grievance, and it is the Government stalling on a pay rise that is largely viewed as the enemy. This isn’t the case when it comes to the likes of those who disrupt the lives of the public with protests unrelated to issues the ordinary man and woman in the street can directly relate to, such as the cost of living. The ‘end of the world is nigh’ hysteria of the kind that largely emanates from privileged middle-class ‘activists’ with a somewhat patrician attitude towards people bereft of their privileges is not likely to inspire much sympathy; if anything, it inspires anger and diminishes wider support for a cause that already seems fairly abstract, a product of the crystal ball rather than something as immediate and tangible as a supermarket receipt recording rising prices.
Having disrupted play at the World Snooker Championships as well as the Grand National and the Derby lately, yesterday the Ptolemy and Titania brigade made their presence felt at Lord’s. Almost 50 years ago, play in an Ashes Test was momentarily halted at the same location due to a daft man in the nuddy; half-a-century later, the entirely humourless idiot sons of the Climate Change industry invaded the pitch, the Just Stop Oil soothsayers with their tiresome orange powder trick yet again. Cockney geezers protesting against the imprisonment of George Davis caused an Ashes Test to be cancelled at Headingley in 1975 by pouring paint on the pitch overnight; this time round, attempts to reach the pitch during an actual match were thwarted by swift security men, not to mention England wicketkeeper Jonny Bairstow showing impressive physical prowess by carrying one of the protestors away. As with every other stunt of this nature to have been staged in recent months, most are pretty sick of the sight of Just Stop Oil and their antics; how many have been converted as a consequence? Answers, I suspect, on a very small postcard.
The philistine goons with the silver spoons in their mouths who went through a phase of defacing great works of art at galleries a few months back in a way demonstrated just how clueless these posh eco-activists are. The Art world is on the same wavelength as them, after all, teeming with curators who loathe the collections they are supposed to be looking after and who denigrate Britain’s artistic heritage as symbolic of racism and colonialism and slavery and so on and so on. Equally, the corporate world of sport is increasingly in thrall to a certain ideological dogma it rarely misses a moment to shove down the throat of the punter weary of being lectured to. But it is the punter that keeps these sports in business, and one can hardly expect him or her to respond with favour to having yet another lecture – albeit one manifested as a protest – interrupting the enjoyment of something representing one of the few escapes from the day-to-day grind still remaining to them. If we are to have pitch invasions, at least give us a laugh and get yer kit off.
© The Editor
Website: https://www.johnnymonroe.co.uk/
Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/user?fan_landing=true&u=56665294
Vimeo: https://vimeo.com/824916098
Russia’s entry into any war is often based upon a past tense scenario that rates the nation’s military capability via a distant triumph; to be fair, though, this is routinely the case where a country’s army is concerned. For example, when British troops were committed to the Crimea in 1854, no British forces had been engaged on a European battlefield since Waterloo in 1815, more than one generation previously; so enduring were the oral histories of the Napoleonic Wars, however, that British supremacy was a given amongst the British people. Similarly, whenever Vladimir Putin feels like flexing his warmongering muscles, he can always fall back on historic victories to stir the patriotic spirit in his subjects, whatever the realities of Russian military might in the here and now. The fact that the Russian Army is so overstretched that mercenaries and bandits closer to the Taliban than troops adhering to the rules of engagement have been loosely incorporated into the armed forces was something that could be glossed over once the swift annexation of Ukraine as anticipated was achieved. The uncomfortable truth of the conflict in Ukraine from a Russian perspective, however, has opened up fault-lines in the accepted narrative that has exposed the likes of Yevgeny Prigozhin’s Wagner group as precisely what they are – ex-cons and opportunists employed as freelancers by the Russian state to keep a foothold in various trouble-spots across the globe without dirtying the hands of the official Russian military.
Reflecting on the brief, bedazzling interlude when a kid from a council estate had been courted, flattered and exploited by the powers-that-be, Noel Gallagher admitted a sense of disappointment that the New Labour model he’d been momentarily seduced by had quickly turned out to be just as ’orrible and sleazy (his words) as its predecessor. It was a unique way to learn a lesson that those members of the electorate not fortunate enough to have penned a few million-sellers when songs still sold a million all eventually learn; and it’s one that not only thousands of voters in the imminent by-elections triggered by recent Tory resignations will shortly be confronted by, but millions more across the country at some point in the next year-and-a-half. Whether merely disillusioned or incurably apathetic, the Great British voter’s faith in public servants has rarely been so severely tested as of late; even the most fanatical supporter of a political party whose official aims and ambitions superficially mirror their own must be wondering where to go next. Take the SNP.
Whenever I take a week off from this here Winegum, whether due to an actual physical vacation, general headline fatigue, or a pile-up of other creative commitments, the hope is always that no major news story breaks that I’d ordinarily respond to. As it happens, I’ve just returned from a sort-of holiday bereft of the tools of my trade, so wasn’t in a position to post anything anyway. However, that didn’t prevent me jotting sentences down on a notepad whenever they gatecrashed my thoughts, for I had a feeling they’d form some sort of post once I was back home again. And, remarkably, I survived what used to simply be regarded as warm weather of the kind summers actually tend to specialise in. Remarkable indeed – and even more remarkable was the fact it rained once or twice after a dry spell; again, this is the sort of thing we’d never heard of before climate change became a corporate bandwagon on a par with Pride. I honestly don’t know how we coped before the powers-that-be alerted us to all this shit.
Anyway, whilst the passing of a famous name I had a soft spot for can often come to my rescue if I’m struggling to think of something to write about, the worst thing is if such a name should pass away in my absence. It happened twice during my latest stint AWOL, and I figured I may as well give the two an honourable mention now I have the chance. Glenda Jackson, whose death at the age of 87 was announced at the back end of last week, was an actress who made her mark at a moment when British cinema was benefitting from ‘England swinging’ via handsome injections of cash from Hollywood. She established herself in groundbreaking Brit flicks such as ‘Women in Love’, ‘Sunday Bloody Sunday’ and ‘The Music Lovers’, and then seamlessly transferred to the small screen when bringing some cinematic gravitas to her portrayal of the Virgin Queen in the BBC’s landmark 1971 production, ‘Elizabeth R’; television was also responsible for the unveiling of her hitherto-untapped comic timing, which she showcased alongside Eric and Ernie. She then exported this to the big screen, winning an Oscar for the 1973 Rom Com, ‘A Touch of Class’.
The other notable passing in my absence was that of a Scottish colossus of 70s soccer, Gordon McQueen, whose death at the age of 70 from an apparent combination of cancer and dementia was also announced last week. Central defender McQueen began his career at St Mirren before joining a well-established exodus south of the border to Don Revie’s mighty Leeds United in the early 70s. Earmarked as a replacement for the ageing Jack Charlton, McQueen was part of an awesome line-up of combative Scots at Elland Road, including seven first-team regulars. He was crucial to Leeds’ 1974 title-winning side and played a vital role in the following season’s European Cup run under Revie’s ‘proper’ successor Jimmy Armfield, only missing out on the Final due to being sent-off in the Semi after performing a move from the Johnny Giles manual of self-defence against a niggling Barcelona forward. McQueen formed a close bond with fellow Leeds scot Joe Jordan and controversially accompanied Jordan across the Pennines in 1978 to Manchester Utd, with whom he won the FA Cup in 1983. McQueen also had many a memorable moment in international colours, especially his goal against the Auld Enemy at Wembley in 1977 (prior to an infamous pitch invasion). Mc Queen had carried on a tradition instigated by Jack Charlton at Leeds, dashing up from the centre of defence during a corner and hanging around the goal-line before utilising his height to leap up and head the ball down into the back of the net. Sadly, it was the legacy of this tactic to which his dementia was attributed in later life. Hard balls headed by hard men in a harder footballing age; a pity the personal price was so high for such a towering giant of his era.
To paraphrase Groucho Marx, who would want to join a club that has some of this lot as members – Priti Patel, Jacob Rees-Mogg, Michael Fabricant, and Guto Harri? All have been elevated up the social ladder in Boris Johnson’s resignation honours list, rewarded for services rendered to a discredited administration; as if to underline just how low the archaic institution of departing Prime Ministers awarding peerages, knighthoods and damehoods has sunk, many of the gongs dished out go to those who participated in the ‘Partygate’ affair, receiving a winner’s medal despite breaking rules the rest of us had to abide by; they already deny they did any wrong, and now their denials have been legitimised by the man whose rotten government they propped-up whilst simultaneously accelerating its demise. Ironically, on the same day his very own ‘Lavender List’ was belatedly unveiled, that man walked what one hopes is the final parliamentary plank he’ll ever set foot upon. Yes, Boris has resigned as MP for Uxbridge and South Ruislip, vacating the backbenches ex-PMs rarely sit comfortably on; his announcement comes in the wake of the ultimate Boris groupie, Nadine Dorries, also quitting her membership of the Commons after learning all that sucking-up to her former leader couldn’t even earn her a poxy OBE. Rishi Sunak may be glad to see the back of both of them, but two imminent by-elections coming along at once won’t be the kind of litmus test of his performance so far that he was looking for.
Not so long ago – at least using the widest historical perspective – wars undertaken on foreign soil were sufficiently detached from home not merely in terms of geographical distance; prior to advances in communications it’s all-too easy to take for granted today, the latest news from the front might not reach those with an emotional investment in the outcome for weeks. We’ve all grown up with stories of WWII telegrams being delivered to doorsteps that informed a war bride her bridegroom was either missing in action or had been killed in conflict; but before the 20th century’s technological innovations, the lengthy wait for news must have made whichever war was being fought overseas seem as though it was taking place on another planet. Ironically, the advances the last century brought us didn’t just shorten the interminable gap between events on the battlefield and deliverance of reports to the housewife, but also served to bring the war to the streets of the nation waging it. Zeppelin raids on England during the First World War were a wake-up call that distance was no longer a hindrance to experiencing the horrors of war for those who hadn’t been called-up to fight it, and what followed a generation later shattered forever the comforting illusion of isolationist security that a bit of water engendered.
The sad news that Network, the finest of all companies issuing vintage TV on DVD, has gone into liquidation is a double blow to anyone who finds intelligent grownup television drama from half-a-century ago preferable to today’s often pitiful excuse. Firstly, the other companies that competed with Network in its early days, such as Acorn and Simply Media, appear to have completely abandoned the DVD/Blu Ray market, meaning Network was virtually operating in a field of one that has few potential operators to fill its shoes; and secondly, Network’s eagerness to keep releasing physical product meant it was a superior option to those that have succumbed to the dubious advances of streaming, a system vulnerable to the vagaries of pop cultural fashions, and one that can edit or remove content without the consent of the subscriber if the puritanical arbiters of permissible material suddenly declare it ‘problematic’. The timing of Network’s tragic collapse was also strangely ironic for me personally, as the very evening I heard the news I’d just finished watching perhaps what could be called an archetypal Network box-set release, ‘Man at the Top’.
winegumtelegram 