The crowd at Old Trafford. Photo: Alex Livesey/Getty Images
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Football is multicultural - but you wouldn’t know it looking at the crowd

"The fact that the majority of players in any Premiership game these days are foreign, and so many of them black, does not seem to have had an appreciable effect on the faces in the crowd."

One of the joys when watching Man United on the telly is looking out for the Sikhs. They sit just behind the dugout at Old Trafford, on the second row, unmistakable with their turbans and beards. Hard to tell their ages and work out whether they are brothers, cousins, fathers or sons. One beard does look a bit greyer than the others.

Normally, there are three, but now and again the camera edges sideways and it looks as though there could be more. Sometimes they are in Man United tops.

I have never seen them interviewed yet all TV footer fans are as familiar with their beards as we are with Wayne’s physog or Fergie’s red face. Fergie at one time used to shake their hands.

Last Saturday, I got invited to Arsenal-West Ham by a friend with several season tickets. In the party was Simon Schama, the historian, who is also a Spurs fan. In that situation you need to keep quiet, give nothing away, but remember to stand up when Arsenal score.

The seats were on the front row, which means you can’t see half the game but you can admire the bevel of the turf and enjoy close-up views of the players. Goodness, Theo Walcott has got a big bum. I never noticed that before. Aerial shots on telly flatten him out, make him appear thinner.

Last time I was at Arsenal, the crowd was shouting Thee-Oh, Thee-Oh, willing him to come on. Now he was on – and they were groaning. Funny game, football. Mark Noble of West Ham, so strong looking on the box, is all head, with his weedy body out of proportion.

At half-time I stood up and looked behind me, my eyes scanning the rows of faces rising up into the sky. I was looking for the Sikhs. No sign of any. Then I looked for Indian faces. None. Five or six Chinese people. Perhaps a dozen black faces. Quite a few women, with partners or families.

Traditionally, football fans have been male, white and working class, ever since the 19th century when professional football in the industrial heartlands first attracted mass audiences. But if you look at old postcards and photographs, you can always spot women, one or two in each row, waving and cheering. No black faces.

It’s hard to get reliable figures of the ethnic minority make-up of football crowds today – or establish what is meant by ethnic minority – but the latest surveys for the Premiership suggest the ethnic proportion is about 11 per cent. The proportion of women, so they say, is 23 per cent. I find both figures hard to believe. I suspect they are a lot less.

Next to me, at that Arsenal game, was a couple from Latvia. I don’t suppose white Europeans are being counted as ethnic. At top London and Manchester clubs, the foreign element must be fairly high. When I have been in the hospitality suites, I’d estimate that about 40 per cent of the guests are foreign.

Jewish refugees from Europe who first settled in the East End had no time or money to follow football. But the next generation, having moved to north London, picked either Spurs or Arsenal to follow, part of the process of assimilation. There are just as many at either club – ie, a small proportion – despite the image of Spurs as
a Jewish club.

Will the children of today’s immigrants follow football? Will they have the money? It costs a fortune, and you have to know the system, get your name down from birth for a season ticket, or have friends or family contacts to manage the odd game.

Will they want to? Will they feel excluded, that it is not for them? In towns and areas where there is a large proportion of immigrants you still don’t see them at games in any great numbers. It’s an inbuilt cultural thing, inheriting a team with your mother’s milk.

The fact that the majority of players in any Premiership game these days are foreign, and so many of them black, does not seem to have had an appreciable effect on the faces in the crowd. So when I watch Man United at home on the box, I always want to sing, “We three Sikhs of Old Trafford are. . .” Which is very silly.

Hunter Davies is a journalist, broadcaster and profilic author perhaps best known for writing about the Beatles. He is an ardent Tottenham fan and writes a regular column on football for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 19 March 2015 issue of the New Statesman, British politics is broken

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Brexit confusion is scuppering my show – what next?

My week, from spinning records with Baconface, Brexit block and visiting comedy graves.

I am a stand-up comedian, and I am in the process of previewing a new live show, which I hope to tour until early 2018. It was supposed to be about how the digital, free-market society is reshaping the idea of the individual, but we are in the pre-Brexit events whirlpool, and there has never been a worse time to try to assemble a show that will still mean anything in 18 months’ time.



A joke written six weeks ago about dep­orting eastern Europeans, intended to be an exaggeration for comic effect, suddenly just reads like an Amber Rudd speech – or, as James O’Brien pointed out on LBC, an extract from Mein Kampf.

A rude riff on Sarah Vine and 2 Girls 1 Cup runs aground because there are fewer people now who remember Vine than recall the briefly notorious Brazilian video clip. I realise that something that gets a cheer on a Tuesday in Harrogate, or Glasgow, or Oxford, could get me lynched the next night in Lincoln. Perhaps I’ll go into the fruit-picking business. I hear there’s about to be some vacancies.



I sit and stare at blocks of text, wondering how to knit them into a homogeneous whole. But it’s Sunday afternoon, a time for supervising homework and finding sports kit. My 11-year-old daughter has a school project on the Victorians and she has decided to do it on dead 19th-century comedians, as we had recently been on a Music Hall Guild tour of their graves at the local cemetery. I wonder if, secretly, she wished I would join them.

I have found living with the background noise of this project depressing. The headstones that she photographed show that most of the performers – even the well-known Champagne Charlie – barely made it past 40, while the owners of the halls outlived them. Herbert Campbell’s obelisk is vast and has the word “comedian” written on it in gold leaf, but it’s in the bushes and he is no longer remembered. Neither are many of the acts I loved in the 1980s – Johnny Immaterial, Paul Ramone, the Iceman.



I would have liked to do some more work on the live show but, one Monday a month, I go to the studios of the largely volunteer-run arts radio station Resonance FM in Borough, south London. Each Wednesday night at 11pm, the masked Canadian stand-up comedian Baconface presents selections from his late brother’s collection of 1950s, 1960s and 1970s jazz, psychedelia, folk, blues and experimental music. I go in to help him pre-record the programmes.

Baconface is a fascinating character, whom I first met at the Cantaloupes Comedy Club in Kamloops in British Columbia in 1994. He sees the radio show as an attempt to atone for his part in his brother’s death, which was the result of a prank gone wrong involving nudity and bacon, though he is often unable to conceal his contempt for the music that he is compelled to play.

The show is recorded in a small, hot room and Baconface doesn’t change the bacon that his mask is made of very often, so the experience can be quite claustrophobic. Whenever we lose tapes or the old vinyl is too warped to play, he just sits back and utters his resigned, philosophical catchphrase, “It’s all bacon!” – which I now find myself using, as I watch the news, with ­depressing regularity.



After the kids go to sleep, I sit up alone and finally watch The Lady in the Van. Last year, I walked along the street in Camden where it was being filmed, and Alan Bennett talked to me, which was amazing.

About a month later, on the same street, we saw Jonathan Miller skirting some dog’s mess and he told me and the kids how annoyed it made him. I tried to explain to them afterwards who Jonathan Miller was, but to the five-year-old the satire pioneer will always be the Shouting Dog’s Mess Man.



I have the second of the final three preview shows at the intimate Leicester Square Theatre in London before the new show, Content Provider, does a week in big rooms around the country. Today, I was supposed to do a BBC Radio 3 show about improvised music but both of the kids were off school with a bug and I had to stay home mopping up. In between the vomiting, in the psychic shadow of the improvisers, I had something of a breakthrough. The guitarist Derek Bailey, for example, would embrace his problems and make them part of the performance.



I drank half a bottle of wine before going on stage, to give me the guts to take some risks. It’s not a long-term strategy for creative problem-solving, and that way lies wandering around Southend with a pet chicken. But by binning the words that I’d written and trying to repoint them, in the moment, to be about how the Brexit confusion is blocking my route to the show I wanted to write, I can suddenly see a way forward. The designer is in, with samples of a nice coat that she is making for me, intended to replicate the clothing of the central figure in Caspar David Friedrich’s 1818 German masterpiece Wanderer Above a Sea of Fog.



Richard Branson is on the internet and, just as I’d problem-solved my way around writing about it, he’s suggesting that Brexit might not happen. I drop the kids off and sit in a café reading Alan Moore’s new novel, Jerusalem. I am interviewing him about it for the Guardian in two weeks’ time. It’s 1,174 pages long, but what with the show falling apart I have read only 293 pages. Next week is half-term. I’ll nail it. It’s great, by the way, and seems to be about the small lives of undocumented individuals, buffeted by the random events of their times.

Stewart Lee’s show “Content Provider” will be on in London from 8 November. For more details, visit:

This article first appeared in the 27 October 2016 issue of the New Statesman, American Rage