Chelsea FC in the Swinging '60s

by Greg Tesser

  ELEVEN

  EUSTON STATION

  AND BEYOND

  Arriving at Euston, we were greeted by what seemed like hundreds of cheering people of all ages. By now, the alcohol intake amongst several of the playing squad and the press corps was back to immediate post-Cup final replay levels.

  As we climbed, or should I say staggered, on to the waiting bus to escort us back to the Fulham Road and its environs with the Cup, I was joined in my section of the vehicle by both Charlie Cooke and an extremely lubricated Hugh McIlvanney, now rightly regarded as one of the leading sports columnists in the United Kingdom.

  Charlie Cooke was one player who was regularly singing Hugh’s praises to me, and there is no doubt that there have been few more articulate purveyors of sports writing than the articulate Scotsman, then aged thirty-six.

  Now I have never been that broad or that big in stature, whereas even forty-three years ago, Hugh was not exactly a lightweight. So, when he came soaring towards me, obviously having consumed more than just a wee dram, I had to be on my toes to avoid his well-proportioned frame. All I ever remember of that ‘meeting’ with him was the smile – no, it was more of a broad, almost cartoon-like grin – on his face that captured the whole mood of the occasion perfectly.

  Driving through the London traffic, we were cheered incessantly by Londoners – were they all Chelsea supporters? And after what seemed like an eternity we reached our destination, Fulham Road, where mayhem ensued. This was joyous mayhem, however, with the crowds lining the pavements on either side cheering with such undiluted joy that I must say that the odd tear ran down my cheek. No doubt the emotion I displayed was increased in intensity by the amount of booze I had consumed in only a matter of hours.

  I remember Ossie telling me later that ‘after an evening out, I’d get myself a glass of port, turn on the video, and watch the replay again’. Like me in 1970, I am sure he shed the occasional tear or two. After all, why not? These were emotional guys – the class of 1970.

  This Cup Final had captured the imagination of the country as never before. No longer could football at club level in television terms be regarded as esoteric, and all of us with blue blood in our veins just hoped and prayed that this first-ever FA Cup triumph would at long last remove that music hall tag from the name of Chelsea FC.

  The Cup euphoria continued for days and days, but for Ossie and Chelsea keeper Peter Bonetti, the pressure was only just beginning, as they prepared to embark for Mexico and the 1970 FIFA World Cup Finals. Alan Hudson would also have been included, I am absolutely convinced of that, but his ongoing ankle problem was probably the deciding factor for Ramsey.

  While Osgood was away in Mexico, the cash kept coming in from the Ford deal – more and more each month. Just prior to his departure, I had said to him, ‘Ossie, there’s no need to worry, I’ll give your wife Rose a ring when the money comes in and drive to Windsor and hand over the notes over a nice cup of tea. How does that sound?’ His head nodded in contented agreement, and over the coming weeks I enjoyed several pots of Typhoo or whatever it was and some biscuits and some cakes in the Osgood garden with his charming spouse. These were tranquil afternoons for us both, and maybe it’s simply another case of rose-tinted glasses, but the sun always seemed to shine, never too hot, but just right; balmy days indeed.

  Away from all this rapture, my life had taken a different course. So much of it was all about putting on an act, pretending to be arrogant and devious à la Andrew Loog Oldham, trying with all my might to ‘do deals’. However, when it came to Charlie Cooke, I was able to revert to my real self.

  As I have already made clear, Charlie was in so many ways not the ideal footballer to try to promote. He didn’t enjoy the publicity razzmatazz at all, and even when I managed to arrange a first-person column in the likes of Inside Football for example, he insisted on being the writer in charge.

  He was also not a great one for actually talking about the game. My everlasting image of the young Cooke will always be of an intellectual – yes, intellectual – seated in his small Mini, eating shellfish. We often did this together. It was all pretty messy really: two guys sitting in his car, having gulped down loads of chardonnay, attempting in a ham-fisted way to extract some crab or lobster or giant prawn meat.

  One such occasion sticks in my mind. I was lunching with Cooke and an old friend of his, Alan Sharp. Like Charlie, Alan was Scottish; also like Charlie he was a writer. But whereas Cooke’s twinkling feet earned him his bread and cheese, Sharp was already making a big name for himself in Hollywood. In fact, the first time I met him, he had just completed the film script of The Hired Hand for Peter Fonda.

  Later, Alan would achieve some limited critical success with his play, ‘The Long Distance Piano Player’, which hit our TV screens in the BBC series Play For Today in October 1970, starring The Kinks’ Ray Davies.

  Over a lunch of pizza and lashings of wine in one of those chic King’s Road eateries that sprung up in the 1960s – well actually we were sitting outside, for it was a warm sunny day – I asked him about the play, and he openly admitted that his work was based on Horace McCoy’s cult novel set in Depression-era USA, They Shoot Horses, Don’t They?, an extremely frank observation I thought.

  The film of They Shoot Horses was released in 1969, but it is only fair to point out that Sharp’s play made its debut on the radio well before the film was available at the cinema.

  In Sharp’s drama, Davies plays Pete, who in a run-down Northern town, embarks on an attempt to break the record for non-stop piano playing. During the course of the play, Davies’ playing becomes more and more eccentric and off-key, which led The Spectator critic Patrick Skene Catling to comment ‘that he was beginning to sound like Thelonious Monk!’

  Lunches with Charlie were always fun and extremely liquid. He had a wide knowledge of modern literature, the books of Ernest Hemingway being his passion. I remember Daily Mirror football writer Nigel Clarke having a conversation with me in a taxi, comparing Cooke to that 1920s American genius F. Scott Fitzgerald, and he wasn’t referring to Fitzgerald’s prowess with a soccer ball.

  No, what Clarke had in mind was that, like that doomed idol of the Jazz Age and writer of that great American novel The Great Gatsby, Cooke was on a downward spiral, fuelled by booze.

  Whether he was or not, and many people have told me since that when ‘in his cups’ he would more often than not morph into an aggressive and obnoxious man, I always found him charming, albeit a trifle introverted; except, that is, when the conversation veered away from the round ball game to the world of arts and literature.

  I personally have always admired the quality of Hemingway’s writing, but I must say that I never found his ‘man’s man’ kind of machismo at all attractive. I admired his bravery and principled liberalism in fighting Spanish Fascist dictator General Franco in the Spanish Civil War with that group of intellectuals and communists, the International Brigade. I used to say to Charlie that I found Fitzgerald’s more poetic prose more appealing to me, as I did his obvious sensitivity and vulnerability plus his beautiful satire in such works as The Diamond as Big as the Ritz and Gretchen’s Forty Winks.

  His admiration for ‘Papa Hemingway’ was in my eyes surprising in a man I always thought to be both sensitive and susceptible to the vagaries of life as a professional footballer.

  Our other meeting place was the world-famous pub in Hampstead, the Bull and Bush. We would meet outside, sometimes on a Saturday evening, just to shoot the breeze. Charlie would always down just a couple of pints and then say to me that he had to go.

  ‘Where are you going – anywhere nice?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh, just a bit of business,’ he would answer, sotto voce.

  Like Ossie, Charlie had an absolutely charming wife. Edith had a sort of Moira Anderson-type beauty about her, and her Scottish accent was soft and velvety and smacked of compassion and friendliness.

  She would telephone me sometimes, and it was always the same question on
her lips: ‘Have you seen Charlie recently?’

  My answer was always the same: ‘Sorry, Edith, not since Saturday when we had a couple of drinks in Hampstead at the Bull and Bush. Has he not phoned you at all?’

  And her reply was always the same: ‘No, I’ve not heard or seen him for a few days.’

  She was always so polite; so softly spoken. Our conversations always ended like this: ‘Well, not to worry,’ I would say sympathetically, ‘I’ll definitely let you know if I hear from him.’

  Some ten months later, Charlie would break into an environment never before traversed by a professional footballer – and in fact football has not broken into this rarefied world since. It was a one-off, and in many ways something that even in today’s ‘classless’ society would not be possible. It was the world of high fashion: a world of class, elegance and glamour, but more of this anon.

  The summer of 1970 was dominated by two major events. One was the General Election, in which Tory leader Edward Heath was attempting to defy the pollsters and oust incumbent Harold Wilson. And the other was the World Cup in Mexico.

  England were World Champions, but by no stretch of the imagination were Bobby Moore and company regarded as favourites. In Mexico’s Latin American culture in which refereeing decisions in those days in particular tended to favour the likes of the hosts and the Brazilians, plus the problems of altitude and extreme heat, the holders’ chances were rated as comparatively slim.

  Their quest was hardly helped by the Bobby Moore/Bogota incident in which the England skipper was accused of stealing a valuable bracelet after Ramsey’s troops had taken on Colombia in a warm-up contest.

  The whole sorry saga has been well-documented, with the full facts actually not being placed in the public domain until 2003 under the thirty-year rule.

  The date was 18 May 1970: the venue, the Tequendama Hotel in Bogota. The England team were in the country, preparing to face Colombia later the same day. Moore and Bobby Charlton were looking intently at the wares in the Green Fire jewellery shop, situated in the lobby of the hotel only a few yards away. Within a few minutes one of the shop’s assistant, Clara Padilla, began throwing accusations at Moore that he had stolen an emerald and diamond bracelet, valued at £6,000. The police were summoned, and statements were taken. Both Moore and Charlton agreed to be searched, but their offer was refused.

  England strolled to a 4–0 victory, and they later flew off to Quito to take on Ecuador, in order to gain more experience of performing at altitude. Initially, it all had the makings of a big storm in very small cup of Darjeeling.

  After a 2–0 win over Ecuador, the plan was to make their way to Mexico via Bogota, as there was no scheduled direct flight. Upon arrival at Bogota airport, the England party was met by what seemed like a battalion of armed police, who were there to arrest the England skipper.

  It was only the intervention of British charges d’affaires Keith Morris, who arranged for Moore to voluntarily attend a police station that prevented the affair from becoming one of international embarrassment.

  The ‘police station’ turned out to be a courthouse where Moore, after hours of the third-degree, was arrested. He was about to be marched off to prison when the home government butted in. Following this intervention, Bobby was placed under house arrest in the home of Colombian Director of Football Alfonso Senior, with two armed guards for company.

  The England players had flown off to Mexico, and the bewildered Moore, in a bid to keep fit, decided to go for a walk the following morning, accompanied by the guards. That same night these guards, obviously feeling bored with life, embarked on a serious drinking session, which left them the worse for wear the following morning. In fact they were feeling so ill that they agreed that Bobby could go for his walk unaccompanied, on the understanding that he would return, which, of course, he did.

  At 10 a.m. on the morning of 27 May, it was decided in the manner of a South American Hercule Poirot, to hold a reconstruction. The small jewellery emporium was packed with a senior judge, police, witnesses and a huge press presence.

  During this farce of a reconstruction, Moore was able to cross-examine Padilla, and it soon became clear that the whole charge was an absurdity. Bobby was dressed in an England tracksuit, and Padilla, having been asked if he was dressed in the same attire when he allegedly stole the bracelet, answered: ‘Yes’. She was then asked to repeat this, and the ever-alert England captain, quick as a flash, showed the judge that his outfit had no pockets!

  Eventually, after further posturing by the Colombian authorities, the Colombian people themselves took a hand by venting their displeasure at the way Moore had been treated, and that it was a ‘national disgrace’. So, on 28 May the judge signed the release papers, and twenty-four hours later he was on a plane bound for Mexico.

  There was a serendipitous moment on the plane when Bobby found himself in conversation with Argentine international Omar Sivori, who told him that these ‘frame-ups’ were common in Colombia. Later, the manager of World Cup favourites Brazil, Joao Saldanha, told Moore that he had experienced exactly the same thing.

  It was only in 2003 that it was revealed that the Colombian police knew that Moore was innocent and that his release was down to the intervention of Prime Minister Harold Wilson.

  This was hardly the ideal preparation for an England team attempting to retain the Jules Rimet trophy, and Ossie later told me that even though the whole sorry episode was something they could have done without, it did in fact ‘pull us together even more’.

  In Chelsea terms, Mexico ’70 was not a good World Cup. Goalkeeper Bonetti was made the scapegoat for the quarter-final defeat by West Germany. And as for Osgood, his input was minimal – scandalously so. Ramsey and Osgood: it was never going to be a marriage made in heaven. In fact I remain utterly convinced to this day that but for the clamour from the press to get Ossie international recognition, which even the tight-lipped England boss could not ignore, the King of Stamford Bridge would have remained an international outcast.

  Having replaced Franny Lee midway through the second period in England’s far-from-convincing opening 1–0 victory over Romania, the betting was that Ossie would be on the team-sheet for the pivotal meeting with those kings of flair from Brazil.

  However, it was not to be. Os told me all about it over lunch later that summer. ‘I’d been working really hard in training – doing all the right things – in fact I hadn’t had a drink for a few weeks! I was doing everything I was told. In one of our practice games, I put two goals past Gordon Banks – I was really flying: on top form. Afterwards Mooro (Bobby Moore) said to me that he was certain I’d be in the team for the Brazil match. Then when Alf Ramsey read out the team he said: “The side that finished the game with Romania will play against Brazil”.’

  Ossie’s euphoria was soon dispelled when Ramsey corrected himself: ‘I am sorry, I meant to say the team that started the Romania match will play the Brazilians.’

  Alan Hudson’s take on the whole ‘Chelsea/Mexico experience’ certainly makes interesting reading.

  ‘If Os was very disappointed with the outcome, then Bonetti was, I can only think, inconsolable, as his worst nightmares came true against the West Germans,’ he related to me. ‘Osgood was by far a stronger character and although Mexico hit him hard – or the lack of Mexico – the other Peter (Bonetti) was, although a very confident character and performer, not made of the stuff that Osgood was. Os would shrug and say, ‘Well, if last season did not show you, then watch this season’. And that is exactly what he did, he was that special under pressure.’

  Bonetti, a last-minute call-up for the West Germany quarter-final, following Banks’ illness, was crucified by many for his supposed poor goalkeeping, which allowed the Germans to net two goals when they were so patently second best. However, in my view – and that of Hudson – it was Ramsey who was at fault.

  ‘Oh, how I felt for him – the other Peter, that is. To this day, I can still make a case for him. I know t
hat the Franz Beckenbauer goal looked like a soft one, but I think it looked far worse than it was, and given what was to follow, it kind of escalated and highlighted it out of proportion.

  ‘What Alf Ramsey did with his substitution was far more damaging, and after all we were still a goal to the good. Then the wheels fell off, and all through bad substitutions.’

  The bare bones of the game are that England took a 2–0 advantage through Alan Mullery and Martin Peters, and were still 2–0 ahead with just over 22 minutes remaining. It was at this crucial stage that the ultra-cautious Ramsey substituted both Bobby Charlton and Peters (no doubt in attempt to keep them fresh for the semi with Italy on 17 June), and it was then that the Bonetti ‘blunders’ changed the whole course of the tie.

  Beckenbauer pulled a goal back, and the Germans obtained parity with a goal from their diminutive striker Uwe Seeler. In extra time Gerd Muller plundered the winner, and poor old Bonetti’s life was turned upside-down as he became the national focus of blame.

  Four days after this soul-destroying reversal of fortunes for the national team, the voters dumped Labour’s pragmatic Prime Minister Harold Wilson out of office, and the far less charismatic Edward Heath took charge.

  To this day, many leading figures in the Labour Party remain convinced that Bonetti’s ‘blunders’ or Ramsey’s poor use of substitutions – you pays your money and takes your choice – which led to England’s demise were the prime reasons for Labour’s own shock defeat.

  When the wily Wilson called the election, Labour was some seven points-plus ahead in the opinion polls, but as it turned out the favourites lost – the Tories gaining an overall majority of 31 seats.

  Wilson himself dismissed the World Cup debacle, as a reason for his own defeat, stating – ‘governance of a country has nothing to do with a study of its football fixtures’.

  Yet Wilson was a football fan, supporting as he did his local club Huddersfield Town, and many years later Denis Healey, Defence Minister at the time, told another story about a strategy meeting at Chequers in April 1970 in which ‘Harold asked us to consider whether the government would suffer if the England footballers were defeated on the eve of polling day?’