Subbuteo

The demise of Shoot! magazine later this month marks the end of another piece of football paraphernalia with which I grew up, and which helped me keep up-to-date with the game in an era before the Internet, satellite television and YouTube. It´s hard to believe, but once upon a time, people like me had to rely on Saint & Greavesy for all our football news.

Players whose names we´d know, but whose faces where a mystery to us until we ripped open that little packet of Panini stickers on our way home from the shops. I used to buy Shoot! magazine at the RS MColl (a chain of shops in Scotland, founded by a former Rangers player) on Seafield Road in Aberdeen and, if the budget stretched to it, a packet of Panini stickers. The magazine was not great for Scottish football (what football magazine is these days?) but it was better than nothing. Up until a few years ago I still had quite a few Shoot! annuals lying about, but being so hopelessly outdated as they were, I ditched them all, something I regret because I suspect they might be worth a bit now.

Anyway, aside from Shoot!, Panini and Saint & Greavesy, we also had Subbuteo to get us through the long off-season. Tonight, in honour of the memory of football paraphernalia of days gone by, Inside Left would like to share his memories of many an evening spent alone in the attic with little plastic men, an oversize ball and the St Johns Ambulance brigade.  Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you: Subbuteo.

Subbuteo came in a variety of editions, from the cheap (the pitch, two goals, a ball and two teams) to the deluxe (a complete stadium, South American style goals, a fence and an Astroturf pitch). The wonderful thing about it all was that you could buy the cheap edition and over the months spend all your pocket money on getting a variety of things with which to augment your setup, turning it from a humble pitch in the park to a Hampden style setup. Most of the things you could buy where complete crap and would just get in the way (a riot fence, introduced somewhere around the mid ´80s which would keep your spectators in but on which you´d always snag your cardigan), whilst some of the others you simply had to have:

Floodlights

If you where lucky enough like me to be able to afford the various stands, then the floodlights really made the whole thing real. With a big chunky black base for the four Lithium batteries you needed, the white plastic mast and the 4×4 bank of lights in their solid black plastic casing, they really looked the part. Unfortunately, the light they emitted wouldn’t have been enough to cover a stamp, let alone an entire pitch. Even with all four of them on you could just about make out the front three rows of the stand and the penalty spot. After that it was a no-mans land. The romance of the Wednesday evening European Cup ties between Waterschei and Lech Poznan was out, just like the floodlights after 10 minutes of use.

The Half Empty Stadiums

Together with the floodlights, about the only other thing that really made the big match atmosphere come alive was a stadium crammed with supporters. You could buy these pre-painted, but having already blown all your money on the batteries to keep the floodlights going, you could only afford the unpainted figures and perhaps two tins of Umbrol paint. In my case, the only two colours I could ever afford where blue and green. Painting the little figures was a right nightmare and with only the two colours, variation was somewhat absent. The other problem was that you needed so many of them to fill the stadium. I once worked out that a fully complete Subbuteo stadium would seat over 2,500 people! This always meant that your stadium resembled a Queens Park reserve game on a rainy Wednesday in November at Hampden rather than that big Old Firm derby you had in mind. Big Match atmosphere it said on the box? Aye, my arse.

The Crocked Teams

There was always the one team you had that more resembled a First World War field hospital rather than a top flight football team. There was your headless goalkeeper, your fullback with one arm missing and ‘Stubby’, who was just a base with two feet and perhaps only his ankles. In my case this was always Glasgow Rangers, a team I despised so much in those days that whenever life was getting me down or Rangers beat Aberdeen again, I’d get the box down from the loft and snap off Peter McCloys arm, or take the head off Derek Johnstone, the fat bastard.

The Sloping Pitch

We had a deep shag carpet up in our loft so this required a solid base on which to put the pitch. The pitch was generally made of some kind of cheap green cloth on which the various lines had been drawn,  in various degrees of straightness and thickness. This was always the cheaper option than the Astroturf pitch which cost an absolute fortune, but it was a decision you would regret because after about two months your pitch would resemble the Turin Shroud, with the lines all faded and broken. The good thing was that you could just get the Tipex out and re-do them yourself. My pitch was stuck onto a piece of plywood which had an uphill slope at the far left corner that made Easter Road look like a snooker table. It was further attached to the board by means of several strategically placed drawing pins that would warp the lines in such a way that your eighteen-yard area might be anywhere from twelve to twenty-five yards out, depending on the way the drawing pins where placed. Anyway, getting a corner or a throw-in on that side of the pitch was practically impossible. You’d flick the ball there, only for it to roll back towards the penalty spot. Or worse, into the …

Bouncy Nets

Subbuteo had two types of goal. One was more of a hockey goal than anything else, the other was your traditional goal-stanchion-net affair. The problem with the goals was that the net was generally so unfeasibly tight on the frame that it wasn’t so much an onion-sack as a trampoline. Any reasonably hard shot wouldn’t nestle in the far corner, but bounce out back towards the half-way line. Picture the scene: Rangers vs. Aberdeen in front of 40 green and blue spectators in your splendid Subbuteo stadium. With five minutes to go and the score at 7-6, you’re after flicking your headless center-forward into a scoring position in front of the Rangers goal. With a deft flick of the forefinger the ball screams towards the goal with only the one-armed keeper to beat. It flies past him into the back of the net and straight back out again towards the half way line, the one you freshly Tipex-ed before the game. "Goal!" you shout. "Post" shouts your mate. An argument ensues at the end of which your now ex-friend goes home in a huff and you go upstairs and another Rangers player loses a limb.

What Fookin´Team Is That?

Back in the old days, before the dismantling of the trade unions, the factory floor and militant socialism, Subbuteo had a factory somewhere in England where rows upon rows of women would sit and paint the teams. At least that’s what I imagined, because even today I don’t think you could invent a machine that could accurately and consistently do you a Celtic top on a Subbuteo figure. So if you’ve just got a bunch of Manchester United or Rangers or Leeds to do, you’re grand. Anything a little bit more intricate however and you’d soon see which ones where done towards the end of the shift. You know the ones: teams with stripes or hoops. Celtic, Arsenal, West Ham, Aston Villa, Crystal Palace and the Aberdeen strip of the late 70’s where all pretty tricky to do and generally looked a right state. Buying a new team wasn’t so much a thrill as playing Russian Roulette. The one player you’d see through the little window always looked top notch, but when you got home and opened the rest of the box, the disappointment was crushing. Many of my Arsenal vs. Aston Villa (or was it West Ham, it was hard to tell) games where played under floodlights to avoid embarrassment.

Subbuteo Crap-O-Rama

Subbuteo came with many little add-ons to make it all the more realistic. At one time, I had a Dugout,  a TV tower (including camera team and John Motson figure), a police dog team (all green and blue, including the dog), a St Johns ambulance crew (again, green and …), and a score board, the one that came with about two hundred sheets of cardboard on which was printed the names of just about every team in existence in those days. You'd have to get your mum to help cutting the names out, because after about an hour the stigmata would set in.

The best ones though, where the corner kick taker and the throw-in taker. The corner kick taker was basically a huge figure somewhat resembling Nat Lofthouse in 1930’s shorts, with a pin through his hips on which his right leg could swivel. The idea was that you’d place the ball in front of him, pull his right leg back and then launch the ball into the six-yard area. The idea was good, the reality somewhat different. Like the throw-in taker (another giant, this one on a spring), the ball would generally end up in the stands or under the bed. Completely useless, just like the other add-ons that just got in the way during the course of the game and which would eventually end up under the bed, or in the hoover.

Unlike Shoot! magazine, Subbuteo is still going, as are the Panini stickers. I wonder though for how long before we´ll be consigning these two to the football history bin.

{originally published on starofthenorth.net, and republished here for the sake of nostalgia}