Well the World Cup is over for another quadrennium. Spain won. The governing body has showed us it’s murky depths of corruption (more MAFIA than FIFA). The President of the United States of America tried to make it all about him as he continues to dismantle civilisation but I was still engaged in it as I was as a child back in the sixties and seventies.

I wanted to be a contender but fate had other plans.

Maybe if I’d had more support from family and friends. I don’t recall any bonding moments in the public park kicking a ball back and forth with my father. He was probably on the golf course but enough about the Daddy issues. My older brothers went to a rugby playing school and Soccer Mums weren’t invented back then.

Maybe if I had had the proper equipment. My dad did give me a pair of his old football boots, nothing like the candy floss galoshes of today. I don’t remember him ever playing football in my lifetime. Perhaps they were bequeathed by his father. They looked old enough. Dark brown leather with nailed on studs and a rounded wooden toe cap polished with lashings of  Dubbin. Laced in a strange two over one fashion knit one purl one because…………..I don’t know why. Just walking around the change room sounded like a Riverdance audition.

Add to that oversized shin pads that made me look as if I was opening at Lords. I had to do with hand-me-down rugby shirts until I received my first proper strip. Manchester United or a fairly close approximation of it.

Tight white nylon shorts I made the mistake of thinking could double as swimming trunks. I spent over two hours treading water until every female had left the public baths. I didn’t think they would be so transparent.

I did have a ball. Another relic from the fifties. Dark brown leather and twice the size of my head. The air inlet was hidden behind a laced section – knit one purl one again – that left an interesting impression when walloped into a tender pink thigh. Luckily I didn’t header it much as I had a heid like thrupenny bit. When wet the impact was like a Cassius Clay knockout. Luckily I didn’t header it much as I had a heid like thrupenny bit. When wet the impact was like a Cassius Clay knockout. Luckily I didn’t header it much ………………………………….Nurse ! Is it teatime yet ?

Maybe if I’d had proper training. It’s all cones, mini hurdles and inflatable defenders these days. There weren’t any cones in my day. A couple of jumpers or a school bag on the ground but they were probably makeshift goals. Nobody talked tactics. ‘Get intae they bastards’ was the only pep talk I remember. I certainly don’t remember being on any list in the event of a penalty shoot out. On being five nil down at half time, coach’s advice was just keep doing what you’re doing. Wise words. Home team nil, visitors eleven.

Truth be told, if I had had a modicum of natural talent. I loved the game, still do but it didn’t reciprocate. I could say I never got past first base but that would be getting into another game entirely and confusing. Maybe being right handed and left footed was my affliction. There must be a  recognised medical condition or at least a support group to back me up.

I even tried refereeing. Did the course and everything. I realised my fail safe notation had it’s flaws in one of my early games officiating. I couldn’t remember who scored the last goal. Was it four four or five three ? As one set of players seemed more jubilant than the other I hastily changed the official paperwork to a win for the home side. No comebacks. I lasted another five games before I hung up my whistle.

Maybe my true calling should have been to work my way up (all bribes gratefully accepted) to become head of state and then put pressure on the footballing governing body !

Gianni, it’s Johnny. About that red card ?

See you in 2030 !

(Post by John Allan from Bridgetown, Western Australia – July 2026)