by Tim Flower
My press release contained the most glowing assessment of England’s performance that the facts and my professional conscience would allow. It centred on an admittedly prompted and somewhat tongue-in-cheek quote from Our Rog: “It was our first match. We won three-nothing and never gave them a sniff. Just wait until we get warmed up!” I didn’t highlight the fact that Finland’s team were all amateurs, who wouldn’t have got into a Fourth Division side back home.
The following day, to my relief, I learnt that most of Fleet Street had followed my lead and focused on England’s successes, rather than their shortcomings. Embarrassingly, one of the exceptions was Ken Jones. He repeated a long-running complaint that England scored too few goals.
I was wondering what the FA had made of my performance, when a porter at my hotel handed me a telephone message Joe Mears had left. It read:
I hope you have your tickets etc for Norway. Any problems, you can reach me at The Grand in Oslo.
After Tuesday’s match, please join me in the Stadion Kro restaurant for a bite to eat, so I can give you what you need for the second half of the tour.
I took comfort from the message’s chatty tone and hoped that, by the time we met up in Oslo in two days’ time, England would have “warmed-up”, taken advantage of another team of amateurs and put the lie to Ken’s criticism.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Wednesday, 29th June 1966
The FA had booked a room for me in Hotel Viking, a fourteen-storey tower block close to Oslo’s main station, which had been built for the 1952 Winter Olympics. The girl on reception - a young Ingrid Bergman look-a-like - had told me excitedly that The Rolling Stones had stayed there the previous summer. I suspected they’d had posh rooms on the top floor, with panoramic views of the city. My first floor one proved to be very modest, with the nearest bathroom some distance down a corridor.
My impression of Norway’s capital as a whole was of a modest city, verging on a poor one. The people were friendly enough; some even tried to speak to me in English. But they seemed to depend for their livelihoods almost exclusively on fish. It was like a Viking version of Hull; an impression that was reinforced by the preponderance of Morris Minors, Ford Anglias and other British cars on its roads.
In both Helsinki and Oslo, I was offered little else to eat but fish. So by the time I left the simple, compact Ullevaal Stadium to meet Joe Mears in the wooden chalet restaurant outside, I was craving roast beef and Yorkshire pudding and good old British bangers. Otherwise, however, I was in an excellent mood. The game I had just witnessed against Norway had been an unqualified success, not only for the England team but also for me as their cheerleader.
The good news had started with the announcement of the England team. Ramsey had reverted to the 4-2-4 formation I had recommended in my April submission to the FA and selected two wingers: John Connelly and Terry Paine. He had also recalled Jimmy Greaves to partner Our Rog up front. Had he preferred Liverpool’s Ian Callaghan to Paine, it would have been my dream attack.
And from there - save for Norway delighting the home crowd by scoring first - the evening just got better and better. Assisted by crosses from the wide men, Greaves scored no less than four goals; and Connelly himself and a recalled Bobby Moore added another two. England obliterated Norway by six goals to one and, in so doing, proved to Ken Jones that, with the first match of the World Cup Finals less than a fortnight away, they had rediscovered their goal punch.
The Fleet Street press who were at the game didn’t need any prompting from me to lead with the story that Greaves would win us the World Cup. When I approached Geoffrey Green of The Times, who had previously criticised England’s scoring rate, he was effusive in his praise for the team’s offensive display. In his cut-glass, home counties accent, he told me that Greaves’ performance was “as complete an example of forward play as one is ever likely to see”. Ken Jones spoke of Greaves having “fashioned a warning to the world”. This was just what the FA and, I suspected, Forsyth had ordered.
So, as I entered the restaurant that locals, for some inexplicable reason, called “Liket” (“The Corpse”), I anticipated the second half of my task as the FA’s Press Officer with a great deal more comfort and confidence than I had the first.
Inside, the walls were covered with black and white photographs of the previous matches in the stadium that overlooked the humble premises, and low, incandescent lights gave the cosy room a firelight glow. I acknowledged Green and Jones who were having a post-match drink at the tiny bar in one corner and scanned the scrubbed wooden tables in the dining area, looking for Mears.
I noticed two of the defeated Norwegian team were being seated at a table by one of the square Wendy house type windows. More accurately, I first noticed the pair of stunning white-blondes who were with them. One, in particular, would have been on any man’s wish-list for Playboy’s, Playmate of the Month. She wore pale pink tights over her long, slender legs, which were topped with a crimson, A-shaped mini-dress, like a shade on a standard lamp. Jimmy Greaves, Bobby Moore and Martin Peters, who were celebrating their success at a neighbouring table, also seemed taken with the girls. Jimmy pointed out the Playmate with his pipe and gave his team mates an ostentatious wink. They responded with giggles and nudges.
I found Mears sitting at a table on the other side of the room. Even in the warm light, he looked pale and grey, as if he was plugging the restaurant’s cadaverous nickname.
We were soon brought two beers and a plate of sandwiches to share. Both were a disappointment. Whilst the beer looked like keg bitter, it was less malty and distinctly sweeter; and the “sandwiches” weren’t actually sandwiches at all. Each comprised one solitary slice of ginger-cake coloured bread, topped with (judging by the look and smell) thin slices of raw, pink or orange, fish.
‘The press will eulogise about that performance,’ I said, ignoring the food. I was keen to assure Mears that I had been doing my job. ‘I’ve always thought England play better with two wingers. And it definitely brings out the best in Greaves.’
I expected Mears to endorse my comments enthusiastically. He didn’t. Instead, looking slightly apologetic and uncomfortable, he said, ‘Alf Ramsey won’t play two wingers in the World Cup.’
‘Why?’ I asked, expressing both disappointment and puzzlement. ‘With a winger on each flank supplying the ammunition, Greaves has just blown the opposition away. If they performed like that next month, they might just beat Brazil.’
‘Tonight was a warm-up match. The purpose was to ensure the players are fully fit and raring to go.’
‘But he also played two wingers in the last home match. That wasn’t a warm-up: it was almost two months ago. Again, England won comfortably. And it was a joy to watch.’
‘That match was a friendly. It was about entertaining the crowd and getting them behind the team. Alf only agreed to field the side you wanted on condition that, from then on, team selection would be his and his alone to make. He made it very clear that England’s World Cup team would not look like that.’
I didn’t do a very good job of hiding my annoyance. ‘Then what was the point of playing two wingers this evening, if he has no intention of playing that way next month? It doesn’t make sense.’
‘Alf knows what he’s doing. Against world-class opposition, we have to shift our focus from how we score to how we stop them scoring. If we were to play like we did tonight against, say, Brazil or Argentina we’d get killed. Tonight was about instilling confidence in the players and the public and keeping our group opponents guessing as to which system we’ll play against them.’
I realised then that England’s recent matches were following, not the script I had written in April for the FA, but the one that had required my presence on the tour and seemed to be more about promoting the team than managing it.
Feeling peckish as well as put-out, I made myself a proper sandwich using two slices of the suspicious bread and combining their fishy toppings. After taking an aggressive bite
out of it, I must have grimaced, for Mears smiled sympathetically and said, ‘I don’t know about you, Harry, but what I could do with now is a nice York ham sandwich, on white sliced bread with the crusts cut off, and just a smear of Colman’s mustard.’
With a mouthful of what tasted like wet seaweed on Marmite-smeared polystyrene, all I could do was nod enthusiastically. As I did so, I noticed the pink Playmate get up from the table and scan the room, presumably looking for the toilet. Jimmy noticed too. Much to his teammates’ amusement, he stood up, held his pipe as if it were a microphone and, as she glided past him with model-like deportment, he began singing the words of the “Manfred Mann” single that had recently topped the charts: ‘When she moves, she walks so fine, like a fla-min-go.’
Bobby and Martin joined in. ‘Some sweet day, I’ll make her mine, pretty fla-min-go.’
Flamingo’s towering, Nordic boyfriend - fresh from being humiliated in the neighbouring stadium by the impromptu choristers - was not amused. Confronting the relatively short, England forward, he looked down at him silently, contemptuously, as if working out how best to exact revenge for not only the singing but also his earlier four goals.
‘Take it easy mate,’ Jimmy said in his chirpy London accent. ‘We’re only having a laugh.’
Whilst the Norwegian said nothing in response, it was obvious that he didn’t see the funny side of it. He tore Jimmy’s pipe from his hand and tossed it away. This sparked a scuffle between the two which, fortunately, the England captain and the Norwegian’s teammate quickly broke up. By the time Flamingo had fixed her face and strode elegantly back in, each side had cooled down, retreated to its table and, it seemed, was conducting a calm, post-fracas analysis.
It was the sort of incident you could see in a public bar back home any Friday or Saturday night around closing time. The difference was, this one involved men employed to not only represent their nation abroad but also - as I now understood it - promote its World Cup campaign. Consequently, it seriously troubled Mears.
‘We can’t have those alcohol-fuelled antics reported in any of the papers back home, Harry.’ Although he had put on half-rimmed spectacles to consult the menu again, Mears’ determined glare pierced through them.
Having pointed out to him the only British journalists who could have witnessed what went on, I went over to the bar where they were sitting, bought the two of them a drink and had a quiet word with them.
I returned to discover Mears had traded in our fishy snacks for two large scotches.
‘Don’t worry Mr Mears, all they saw was what The Times’ Geoffrey Green called “the violent petulance of a foreign loser”. Nothing more.’ This wasn’t the whole truth; but I was confident they wouldn’t consider the story worth the price of ruining their relationship with the players, Ramsey and the English FA.
After toasting England and wishing them World Cup success, Mears handed me an envelope similar to the one I had taken from the air terminal locker. ‘I’m told everything you need for Copenhagen and Katowice is in there, as before,’ he said, pointing at the swollen package.
‘Does the briefing paper reflect tonight’s match?’ I asked, hoping a stop press had been appended that would relieve the pressure for rapturous reports on the Denmark and Poland matches.
‘No, it won’t. I’m just giving you what the Pole gave me in London to bring out for you.’
I wasn’t sure I had heard him correctly. ‘Did you say, “the Pole”?’
Mears nodded.
‘A tall thin man with a scar?’ I said, miming a slash down the side of my face.
‘Yes. The chap you got the first package from at the terminal.’
‘Actually, the package had been left for me in a locker. I didn’t see him there: I saw him - or at least someone matching that description, who apparently calls himself “the Pole” - coming out of Central Hall the day the World Cup was stolen.
Mears’ expression switched from vestigial worry to desperate alarm. ‘I assumed you’d been briefed,’ he stammered.
‘Briefed? About the Pole? No. Should I have been?’
He looked anxiously over his shoulder. The England players having got up to leave, Ken and Geoff had sidled over and were hovering near us, no doubt hoping for a usable quote. ‘We can’t talk here,’ he snapped. ‘We’re catching the same flight tomorrow to Copenhagen. I’ve got a car picking me up at twelve. Come to my hotel: The Grand on Karl Johans Gate. I’ll explain then.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Thursday, 30th June 1966
After an unsettled night’s sleep on an unforgiving single bed, the next morning I got up late and was only just downstairs in time to beat the breakfast deadline. Not that the meal was worth hurrying for. It comprised cardboard like bread, similar to the Ryvita Nell used to eat when dieting; thin slices of Swiss-type cheese that smelt like a sweaty plimsoll; and lurid, squashed red fruit that was said to be jam, but which tasted like nothing I had ever found in a jar of Hartley’s. What made it worse was that, the Norwegians being committed coffee drinkers, I couldn’t wash it down with a nice cup of tea.
I spent the rest of the morning in the well-worn guest lounge sketching out the bones of a press release for Sunday’s match against the Danes. This took me a good deal longer than it should have done because my mind had kept diverting to Mears’ mysterious disclosure about the Pole. This, in turn, had resurrected issues that had troubled me when first appointed as the FA’s press officer. Why was I selected for a job of which I hadn’t even been aware, let alone applied for? Why hadn’t the FA chosen a more renowned football writer? Why did Forsyth, not a FA official, follow up on Mears’ letter of appointment? And the biggest question of them all: what was the prime suspect in the Jules Rimet Trophy theft (at least as far as I was concerned) doing working for the FA? I couldn’t wait to get to the Grand Hotel and find out the answers.
However, by the time I had ruminated on these issues and completed my skeleton press release, almost two hours had passed and I was at risk of being late. So I hurried up to my room, packed my things and raced - as quickly as I could carrying my suitcase, typewriter and raincoat - back down to pay my bill at the reception desk.
The desk was manned by the hotel’s straight-backed, middle-aged manager. He didn’t look Norwegian: his curly hair was almost as dark as his charcoal suit and he had olive skin. Nonetheless, he spoke in the jolly, sing-songy manner that I had come to expect in Oslo. ‘This is your account, Mr Miller. And ve take a telefon message for you also.’
Clipped to the neatly typed bill was a sheet from a message pad, completed in biro as follows:
DATO: 30/7
DIT: 11.10
GJESTENAVN: H. Miller ROM: 319
FRA: Ghita
MELDING: Kål de foks. Ergent.
I struggled to make any sense of it and so showed it to the manager. ‘Who is the message from?’
‘Ghita. See here, vere it says “Fra”’
‘Who’s called Ghita? Is that even a name of anyone?’
‘You not heard of Ghita Nørby, the famous Danish actress?’
‘No. Never. Anyway, why would she be phoning me?’
‘Maybe another Ghita call you? It is used many times in Denmark and a little in Norvay also.’
‘But I don’t know any Danish people, or Norwegians for that matter - present company excepted,’ I said, feeling increasingly frustrated. ‘Anyway, what’s the message?’
The manager patiently pointed to the “Kål de foks. Ergent.” scrawled next to “MELDING”.
‘What language is that?’
‘English.’
‘English!’
‘With some Norwegian spelling, I think. I read it for you. Call de Fox. Urgent.’
The penny dropped. ‘It’s from Rita, not Ghita.’
‘Is Rita a name in English?’
‘Yes. You know, Rita Hayworth?’
He shook his head.
‘It doesn’t matter. I need to call London urgently.’
‘This vill take some minutes, Mr Miller. Our operator must telefon the local operator. The local operator, she then telefon the international operator. The international operator must then — ’
‘Telephone the London operator. Yes, I understand.’
I gave him Rita’s details. ‘Please be as quick as you can. I have a very important meeting at the Grand in thirty minutes.’
The manager nodded calmly and then noticed my luggage. ‘No tram stops outside the Grand now. No trolleybuses also. I shall arrange a taxi for you?’
‘Thank you. Thank you,’ I gabbled. ‘But first could you please arrange the call to London. I really can’t be late for my meeting.’
I was concerned about not only missing my lift to the airport (and, therefore, my flight to Copenhagen) but also Mears’ explanation about the Pole.
‘Don’t vorry, Mr Miller,’ he said, like he was voicing a fairy godmother on Jackanory. He pointed to a pair of sagging leather settees facing the reception desk. ‘Please sit. Ve vill do this - how you say - double quick.’
I did as instructed.
Sitting there impatiently, I remembered being at the Daily Mail and trying to phone Turin when they bought Denis Law from City. I could have sworn they had sold him on to United, by the time I got through.
However, the Viking’s manager was as good as his word. Within five minutes, he called me over to the desk, positioned the base of a heavy, bakerlite telephone in front of me and passed over the receiver.
‘Rita, are you there?’ I said, loudly and urgently.
‘Hello Harry.’ Although the voice coming down the line from the west end of London to the centre of Oslo was faint and accompanied by a constant hissing, I immediately detected her troubled tone.
‘Is there a problem, Rita?’
‘It’s Mr Mears. He went out for a walk in the park near his hotel after breakfast and he ……psed.’