WITH amoral arch-pragmatist and recent docusoap star Neil Warnock – football’s ‘nutter on the bus’ – joining Ken Bates at Elland Road, two of the Horsemen of the Apocalypse are in place and recruiting ready to unleash plague and pestilence on the beautiful game once more.
Well I suppose that’s my basic position carved out, a subliminal default still shaped by a playground antipathy to Revie’s all-conquering shock-troops and, I think, shared by Ayresome veterans of a certain age. But plenty of others just don’t care too much about Leeds these days. Whateva. That’s youngsters for you. They don’t know their history.
So with our silly seventies sock-tagged and smiley badged antagonists due to roll into Teesside for a televised small screen clash on Sunday, it is time once more to consider the changing nature of this de facto derby by default. Here’s “another chance to see” (that’s “a repeat” in old money) a blog written 18 months ago in the last dark days of the Strachanovite abberation.
SO, IS Leeds a derby? That the question even needs to be posed is telling and speaks volumes about Teesside’s cultural confusion and identity crisis.
Distance, geography and logic suggest it is not… but Boro are braced for the biggest crowd of the season and the arrival of our ever friendly cousins from the south for a powder keg clash will bring generations of historical emnity bubbling back to the surface. It sure feels like a derby….
Over 4,000 away fans travelling for a game that is on the box and the rising tension on Teesside suggests this is more than just the usual three points at stake – yet in the Gazette today Teessider Matthew Bates insists emphatically that it is not a derby game. But then again, he is a young lad from Stockton, a “town full of Mackems”. He will naturally look to the North and to more recent rivalries when it comes to bragging rights.
He will have grown up with regular Riverside clashes against our Tyne-Tees screentime rivals Newcastle and Sunderland and for as long as he has been in a first team feature fallen giants Leeds have been in their schadenfraude inducing post-Ridsdale nightmare of administration, relegation and lower league exile.
For an older generation though, and especially those on the “Yorkshire” side of the river who grew up before Middlebrough was culturally and politically moved 30 miles north in the municiple shake-ups of the late 60s and early 70s, or those who have friends and family and business links that point them south to Thirsk, Whitby, Northallerton and beyond, Leeds have a different historical footprint.
For a decade or more Leeds were the successful and dominant evil empire lurking aggressively to the south. They were a serious threat to Boro in the battle for hearts and minds in the playgrounds of the town and more so in the disputed badlands of North Yorkshire. For fans of a certain age, Leeds are the old enemy. Grrrrrrrr.
Leeds was always ‘a derby’ in the 1970s. When you watched Yorkshire TV the Revie machine was an ever present headline hogging juggernaut. That is who you were measured against, not Newcastle and Sunderland which were still then dark and distant alien towns practically on the Scottish border.
Leeds were the Manchester United of their day, the morally weak playground glory hunter’s team of choice all across the country, especially around here where there there a ‘Yorkshire’ link to justify the choice. All the schoolyard sheep round her had the stupid sock tags with the numbers on and smiley Leeds badges painted on their haversacks. Duncan McKenzie could jump over a mini you know!
When Boro were still in the second division and Leeds in their pomp were winning trophies and carving a swathe through Europe the pecking order was quite clear. They were the big boys who offered reflected glory and glamour and to eschew that to follow Boro was to elect for a life of self-inflicted masochism and mediocrity.
And it wasn’t just kids who fell into dirty Leed’s cynical embrace. Every fortnight there would be coach-loads of Teessiders travelling to Elland Road, adults reafffirming their Yorkshire identity and rowdy young ruffians enticed by the boot boy mystique.
The problem was made concrete when Jack Charlton took Boro up and we went head-to- head with them. More so when we started to beat them. What had been a patronising pat on the head for the little neighbours or even a smarmy second team affection because of their hero Charlton became a more marked snarling antagonism and soon the game became a serious point of friction and a real battle for status. In the seventies beating Leeds was far more important than beating the pair to the north.
Leeds was one game when Middlesbrough had to metaphorically lock up its daughters. Shops put shutters up and all police leave was cancelled. And more so than the routine aggro, for Leeds there was always real trouble: in and around the station, in the pubs and in and around the ground as the meatheads on both sides fought it out.
There were running battles in Boot Boy Alley and the Old Mans Park as swarms of kids in flares and parkas ducked for cover and the police horses charged up and down Linthorpe Road. At away games too. It was a trip where the Beggs Buses convoy often came back without windows and on the approach by foot you got asked the time an awful lot. It was a horrible and hostile place to go.
Since then thankfully the antagonism has eased. The immediate cultural conflict with our former sparring partners has faded as Middlesbrough has settled into its marriage with Stockton and started to get on better with the in-laws. We watch Tyne-Tees and are part of One North East, or South Newcastle or whatever the quangocrats’ sub-region is called these days. The once live grenade of the Leeds game has been defused.
That doesn’t mean there isn’t a residual hostility. There is, and mainly because of the institutional boorish Tetley bittermen mentality of a sizeable and vocal element of the Leeds travelling crowd, the only group that surpass Newcastle and Sunderland in their conscious nastiness. These are supporters after all who sang in praise of the Yorkshire Ripper to taunt police. And Munich to taunt Manchester United. And they started – and continue – the paedophile taunts here too. Nice.
Of course, it doesn’t help that their fans laughed as Juninho sobbed on the pitch when we got relegated at Elland Road in 1997 too but while that still stings a bit that is a minor charge on the historic crime sheet.
So it may only be a derelict shell of a ‘derby’ and not even recognised in some parts of Teesside as being relevent – a poll on the gazettelive.co.uk Boro page edged just towards the ‘no’ camp – but for many this will still be our biggest game of the season.
WHILE we are talking Leeds, here’s some newly available archive footgae from the BBC of Grove Hill lad Brian Clough talking to David Frost in 1974 about his ill-fated ‘Damned United’ city break , management and his future. See here.
MEANWHILE, over on the Untypical Boro twitter feed (see how I neatly cross-promote the brand across a variety of digital platforms in a bid for world domination), I’ve been prompting some good and bad memories on my regular #onthisboroday tag by reminded readers that today is the anniversary of:
1) JFH taking an acrobatic tumble to win a penalty that Yak slotted away as Boro battled to a famous 1-0 home win over mighty Roma in the first leg of the UEFA Cup last 16 back in 2006. And..
2) With the big clubs all out and the door to Wembley swinging open invitingly, Southgate’s spineless Boro meekly surrendering 2-0 at home to Championship side Cardiff. Was that the ultimate ‘typical Boro’ moment, a self-destructive implosion in the face of historic opportunity? Are we still reaping that particular whirlwind? It was certainly the beginning of the end for Southgate.