Way back in 2002 the Labour Government initiated the process of what would ultimately result in the staging of the London Olympics in 2012.
Undeterred by the likely costs of this – which they grossly underestimated – the politicians pushed ahead soothing the public with promises – which they grossly overestimated – of a grand sporting legacy for generations to come.
Those of us working around grassroots sport, in particular at junior level, suspected this was utter bollocks; so recent news stories surrounding the dire state of recreational football did not come as any surprise.
If football, our national sport, is in such decline then this does not bode well for other sports, with far less exposure to potential participants.
Two recent articles in The Independent by Glenn Moore offered an insight into the woeful state of both adult and junior football in the parks, a format loved by generations.
Whereas most things that change over time may be argued as “progress” – whether universally approved or not – the decline of recreational sport is certainly not progress.
The main reasons cited in the reports are obvious; a poor quality of pitches and facilities plus spiralling costs. This in an age when the game is awash with a fool’s gold at the top level.
However, thirty years ago councils still hired out slag heaps splattered with dog shit, mowed these only when the mud subsided and threw a hopeful handful of grass seed down at the end of the season calling this “maintenance”.
The post-match shower was often via the one sink that still had any taps connected and might also have been as rare as three completed passes in most games.
Often, the pitch lines were hastily created by a hungover “Coach” (fat lad in a tracksuit not good enough to get in the team even with only nine players).
With a bucket of sawdust – useful in more ways than intended – lines of battle were drawn before frostbite took over. Despite all this we played for the camaraderie, banter a script-writer could only dream of and the occasional moment of shared glory.
Why? Because from an early age we were brought up on sport and simply loved it as a result. The vast majority of kids today are sadly simply oblivious to sport outside of a television screen.
I know PE teachers who hardly teach PE. As a result schools spend millions on external companies to provide activities that are questionable in both quality, long term value and lack any notion of competitiveness.
Those that do develop a love for sport and a desire to play beyond school will face an ever increasingly difficult challenge to find a sustainable club whatever the sport in future years.
And it is clear that local authorities will continue to provide less and less of what we took for granted. In tough times it is easier to shut a library, a care home or stop mowing a football pitch than question the value of overpaid executives or councillors’ expenses.
Want a game of football? Need a quality care home for the old folks? If you do then best be able to pay for it.
Maybe we have undervalued sports facilities in general prepared to accept the inadequate as long as it was cheap? Perhaps our values have not kept pace with changing times?
The ever-increasing costs of staging a football game (pitch hire, insurances, kit and useless referees) clearly have to be met. Getting match fees out of players who only a few hours earlier have paid more for a lukewarm kebab laced with salmonella has always been a challenge.
At my local cricket club few players will know – and most likely not care – that a game costs around £120 to stage with umpires, a scorer and a new ball that has been known to fly out the ground first ball; I shall not name the bowler here!
Factor in the costs of maintaining the ground and other core costs and you can easily double this.
In direct contrast, there has been a boom industry in five-a-side soccer leagues at slick venues run by major national operators such as Goals, now a listed company; this is clearly big business and not dependent on the weekly Domino card.
Smooth 3G surfaces – where even I could trap a ball – with no dog shit, a warm shower and a pint afterwards are a huge attraction but these by their nature cannot be wholly inclusive as they are profit driven.
“Sport for All” used to be a mantra of Sport England and yet this appears misplaced in these tightened economic times.
As ever we are light years behind the competition with only around 10% of the 3G pitches in Germany and barely a quarter of the qualified football coaches over in Italy.
Arrogance, ignorance or just complacency from when we were actually any good? Either way, if what we had was not quite as it should have been, it was clearly better than where we are now.
Yet, for all the pristine new 3G pitches you need participants; without these you may as well plant potatoes. And like potatoes you need new crops every year.
Engaging and encouraging kids to love sport again is a long slog; making sure they can afford to do so is just as big a challenge.
As a society we have let down generations of young people condemning them to a life of poor fitness, bad diets, social exclusion and a giant, ballooning NHS tab in years to come.
We are one of the richest nations in the world and as far as football is concerned, the solutions are not complex.
The Football Association Chairman, Greg Dyke, suggests a five-year plan costing £50m a year to fund new 3G pitches. Hand these over to local authorities at nil cost, then accessibility becomes affordable.
Pie in the sky? The average weekly wage for a Premier League footballer was £30k in 2012-13 – more than the national annual average salary – with an annual bill in excess of £1.8bn.
Factor in the new television deal and it is reasonable to assume that the wage bill for 2014-15 will easily exceed £2bn.
Enforcing on spectacularly paid players a levy of 2.5% of their salaries to boost the grassroots of the game they are privileged to play is a no-brainer even before tax-deductibility.
Yes, Sir Alan!
The Apprentice is back having just celebrated it’s tenth birthday and it appears there is still a limitless supply of egos that feel the world owes them a living and are prepared to show TV audiences exactly why it doesn’t.
Some of the crap they come out with as part of their live pre-ambles you just could not make up even after an evening on LSD. How they continue to unearth such a bunch of complete knobs every year is an art itself.
This time Sugar has played it cute, most likely realising that the format is tired and his nice little earner may just be running out of steam.
And so he has introduced an extra four contestants knowing full well that the public just love a flogging and so why not give them more victims. All of them aspiring to greatness, the joy of the show is watching each unravel as egos are smashed.
As the preening narrator testifies, Sugar is an East End boy made good; a Del Boy who has actually gone on and made some money.
One of the clowns appearing this year actually compared himself to the fictional character, seemingly oblivious to the fact that he lived in a tower block in Peckham with Uncle Albert and was permanently broke.
The Apprentice though, is about as relevant to the modern business world as an Amstrad and yet twenty of the most obnoxious, self-centred morons on the planet lined up for this week’s starter.
In tow as ever were faithful lap-dogs, the excruciatingly sycophantic Karren Brady and the ever-bemused Nick Hewer, who by his very expressions gives away the ghost that this is indeed dire stuff; what a pay-day nonetheless.
An early marker as to the quality of these self-appointed Kings and Queens of the universe was when they were choosing the respective team names and Decadence was chosen for the girls.
“What does it mean?” asked one contender with an early scrunch of her pert little nose that may well be out of joint in a few weeks given this less than auspicious start.
Laughably, on berating the choice of name and the fact that few of them knew what it meant, even Hewer got the meaning wrong! I just wanted the little bearded one to turn around, point the stubbly finger and say “You’re fired too!“.
As they set off for a day of selling the team-leader of the girls offered the following instructions doubtless from the Harvard Business School as she advised her team to “wear short skirts!”
This is utter recycled garbage but credit to Sugar for still be able to peddle this tat far better than the twenty wannabes could ever.
It is also reflective of the current state of British television in that overpaid, lazy and witless executives simply sign-off on this year after year. This is public money and Sugar is hoovering it up.
It really is time to tell him “You’re fired!“.
Thursdays With The Silver Set
The Ginger Goddess was absent this week from Pensioners’ Pilates so we had our own apprentice – Marvin – to entertain the old dears on yet another step closer to the wooden box.
Strictly speaking the class is not wholly derived from the one foot on the grave set, given modern day work schedules and those lazy bastards that simply don’t work (…bit rich? Ed).
Marvin began by asking if anybody who had any ailments could let him know, to which one old dear replied.
“Are we doing Pilates or writing down what’s wrong with us? If it’s t’other we’ll be ere all day lad!”
The session began with a gentle reminder to those with less self-control than most to breathe regularly because “…air always finds it’s own way out ladies!” That tickled them so much I swear one or two let a sneaky one out for devilment.
Demonstrating a complex exercise – legs wide and lots of movement – I noticed 97 year old Anna at the front of the class fix on to Marvin’s billowing shorts as her jaw slackened and lips moistened.
As she froze on the spot surely studying the moves more than was needed, her gum chewing went from slow spin to super fast and her pupils dilated like a full moon.
For a minute I thought she would simply launch herself at the unsuspecting young man and would have to be prised off by the Police and several buckets of cold water.
Calm was restored and as the class dispersed the old ladies queued patiently to pass on their thanks – and phone numbers – to Marvin. As one left I heard her say.
“Ooh what I could do for that lad with me best teeth in!”
I sought the sanctuary of the changing rooms only to be approached by my new best mate – 73 year old Cedric – who clearly had something on his mind.
“This Ebola thing is not good you know. I don’t see them checking at Leeds Bradford like they should be. It’ll be pouring in!” he said with a mournful shake of his head.
I had not got the heart to tell Cedric that LBA were not yet doing direct flights to Liberia but then up piped another old boy.
“No need to fear that. There’s a volcano that when it erupts will cover Europe in dust and kill millions! Nobody knows about that one!” he said with a dangerous looking smirk and the contentment that at his age, what did it matter anyhow.
Happy days!
Leave a Reply