“All the culture that is most truly native centres round things which even when they are communal are not official – the pub, the football match, the back garden, the fireside and the ‘nice cup of tea’.” G. Orwell – England, Your England
Since the football club that I support moved to a ground that is inaccessible by public transport, I have been spending my Saturday afternoons watching a mixture of sides in the United Counties League – Harborough, Desborough, the Rothwell Corinthians, but mostly Rothwell Town (“the Bones”).
But, as the sign above illustrates, it looks like I shall have one less option for next season – or, at least, if the club survives, they won’t be playing at their long-time home at Cecil Street.
The club was founded (as “The Swifts”) in 1895, and have spent time in the Northamptonshire League, the Leicestershire League and the Kettering League, as well as the U.C.L.. Their highest point was achieved between 1997 and 2000, when they played in the Premier Division of the Southern League.
The financing of football clubs (like the naming of cats) is a mysterious business, and I’m not sure of the precise reasons for Rothwell’s decline. There are suggestions of extravagence and over-ambition during the boom years – as the manager wrote in the programme notes recently –
“It’s well known we have been struggling of late, but all those players of the past who earned good money from £40-£150 a week at times at Rothwell FC in a high standard not one as said I will come and help you after all you did give me the chance to play Southern League football. Apart from one – Mick Tolton.”
More generally, the decision to allow Sky to broadcast live football has, as predicted, hit attendances at matches hard. Not at the level of the Premier League, of course, but lower down the leagues. (The ban on the televising of live matches now seems to belong to the era of Retail Price Maintenance and half-day early closing – and none the worse for that, in my view.)
Clubs at this level are very much clubs (in the sense of social clubs) with any revenue generated at the gate as a bonus, and have been hit by the same blights that have affected other Working Men’s Clubs (including the smoking ban). What’s done for the Bones is ultimately that Rothwell folk no longer want to spend their evenings in the Rowellian or the Top of the Town Ballroom, given the more exotic attractions elsewhere in the town, or the consolations of supermarket booze.
It’s not so much a club that’s going under, but a way of life.
Watching football at Cecil St. this season has been a bit like watching it in the aftermath of some natural disaster, as essential facilities are cut off and the ground disintegrates. Thieves have stolen the copper cable from the floodlights, so all games have to begin at 2.30. They’ve had the electricity cut off anyway, because they can’t afford to pay the bill (£1,800).
Are the local community rallying round? Not all of them. The bumper takings from the Bones Tea Bar from their Boxing Day derby (about £90.00) were stolen, and the last time I went there was no Bovril, because the thieves had stolen that as well.
As I imagine the ground will be well on its way to becoming a housing estate by the beginning of next season (though I hope the club will find another home), I thought I’d publish some kind of photographic record to preserve what it was like in its last days.
Or perhaps there’s a Corby bus driver out there who fancies reviving a local football club?
The club flag – which seems to have taken on a different significance this season
A floodlight, minus its cable …
and overgrown with ivy …
the roof of the cowshed behind one goal …
an old turnstile, long locked and abandoned …
a stanchion, peeling to reveal several layers of paint
the ransacked tea bar
and – saddest of all – the Rowellian and the Talk of the Town, leaving behind only the ghostly clacking of stilleto heels, the faint scent of hairsprayed beehives and the distant sounds of Matt Monro
and this – one of the oddest things I’ve seen at a football ground – a squirrel’s tail left on one of the seats in the stand. Presumably one of the fans – goaded past breaking point by the unkindness of fate – had grabbed a passing squirrel and ripped its tail off.
I wonder if this is what it will be like at Ibrox soon?