What is wrong with footballers? As soon as one is accidentally touched or knocked, they are out for a month. It’s time for a rant from Sportingo’s grumpy old git and this week, my hobby -horse is to campaign for the immediate reinstatement of yesteryear and bring back the man with the magic sponge.

Those were the days, dear fans. A player went down after a crunching tackle from a psychopathic full-back who during the week worked down the pit and immediately an old git (like me today) ran onto the pitch carrying the fire bucket from outside the dressing rooms (having emptied the sand and filled it with water from the tea urn) and carrying the magic sponge.

The dress of a magic-sponge man was smart casual - tracksuit bottoms made of pure wool which would weight over 100 kilos in the rain, a sweat shirt made of lead and a circa 1930s pair of boots and socks. A rolled-up fag behind the ear was obligatory.

'In my day when a player got an elbow in his head, he would go up and personally thank the defender for waking him up'


And no matter how serious the injury, from quadruple breakage of the leg to shot wounds (in games with Leeds United's Norman 'Bite Yer Legs' Hunter, Chelsea's Ron 'Chopper' Harris and Arsenal's Peter Storey), a quick squeeze and the lad would be back on his feet. There was none of this namby-pamby nonsense of a Sports Science graduate running out with bags and an operating table like they do today.

Metatarsal? Out for a six weeks? Unheard of in my day. The magic sponge man would have a quick drag of his fag , stub it out on the area of the injury, put it back behind his ear and ask the player: ‘What’s up wi’ thee, lad?’ ‘Nowt boss, just broke ankle.’ ‘I’ll broke ankle you, my lad. Now get back up and stop behavin’ like a bloody fish wife.’ ‘Yes, boss.’

Concussion? This is a middle-class injury invented by media types from Islington. In my day when a player got an elbow in his head, he would go up and personally thank the defender for waking him up. These days the Sports Science graduates ask the player who the Prime Minister is to check if they are concussed. How would any modern footballer know who the Prime Minister is? Surely it would be better to ask something about plasma TVs.

A stretcher? In my day there were no stretchers. A player would only go off if he was dead. There would be two grave-diggers at the side of the pitch. These days, a stupid-looking car like you have for ‘andicapped at airports comes on and takes the player and his bloody Sports Science graduate away to a private hospital. And that’s for anything, from broken toenails to a splinter in the finger.

Blood? These days, the sports science graduate has to wear surgical gloves in case he gets any blood on his posh tracksuit. In my days the magic sponge would be a mixture of blood, sweat, water and sand and that mixture would be applied to every player who went down (and those who wanted a quick swig during breaks in play).

So, like everything else in the modern game, things have got worse and worse. This is the first in series of articles, the next one is about club strips. Now I’m going to get the coal in.