His mind may be in grip of dementia, but Gordon’s eyes light up at the mention of his England debut
‘SO, I’m the old man now then, eh?’ Gordon Astall smiles in his armchair in the living room of his home in Torquay, greeted with the news that, at the proud age of 92, he is England’s oldest living international.
An open suitcase rests beside him, its contents littered over the floor. Mounds of black-andwhite photos cover the carpet, some in piles, others stuffed inside scrapbooks themselves jammed full of pictures and press cuttings.
Old programmes from his time at Plymouth Argyle, Birmingham City and Torquay lie among them alongside faded handwritten letters from admiring fans and a bundle of thick shirts. One of them stands out above all the others. Bright red, the number seven on the back, the badge of the Three Lions stitched roughly on to the chest.
Two blue caps with white tassels sit side by side in a wooden frame. They, too, have the Three Lions on the front.
They mark his two England appearances in May 1956, aged 28. A 5-1 win in Finland, with Gordon scoring on his debut, followed by a 3-1 victory against West Germany, the World Cup holders, in front of 92,000 in Berlin.
On Thursday, England play their 1,000th game, against Montenegro. Gordon, who played in numbers 305 and 306, will try to watch from his chair. To do so, he will need the help of his daughter Carole and her school friend Linda, one of Gordon’s carers, who are with us to help with the interview.
Memories surround Gordon but it is those inside his own mind that he finds so hard to retrieve. For a man who has done so much, achieved such great things, there is little he can remember about them now. ‘Oh dear, son. It’s hard to say,’ he replies, when asked what he can remember of playing for England. You can see him fighting against the fog. ‘Things happen so quickly. I don’t know, really. Still, I have enjoyed it. It’s been a good life.’
Dementia has taken its hold. ‘What about Stanley Matthews?,’ Gordon had asked when we told him he is the oldest living England international. It had been in an absent Matthews’ place at outsideright that Gordon had made his two appearances for England. Matthews died in February 2000.
Gordon picks up various pictures from the floor, tracing his finger over the images. There is one of him waving as he boards the plane on England duty. He flicks through the scrapbooks. He reads over framed certificates of his induction into Birmingham’s hall of fame, the club who bought him for £14,000 from Plymouth in 1953, and his place as one of Argyle’s greatest wingers. It is as though his eyes are seeing them for the first time.
‘ You’re showing me things I haven’t seen,’ he says, gesturing at the heaps of memorabilia. ‘I’ve got nothing like this. It’s very nice of you to bring them, it really is.’ He turns to Carole. ‘Look at this lot.’
‘They are all yours, Dad,’ says Carole. Every photograph, every cutting. ‘I got them from the loft.’
‘ Are t hey really? Blood and stomach pills! How wonderful. Look at them all. Fantastic.’
A few minutes later, Gordon asks again where all these artefacts have come from. The disease crept in, Carole thinks, when Gordon’s wife died four years ago. He and June had been married 60 years. They did everything together. It’s got worse in the last two years, Carole says, but it’s in the last six months that dementia’s clutches have tightened. In t he l ast f ort ni ght, Gordon has begun to ask about June.
Carole received a phone call a few days ago from a concerned neighbour at j ust before midnight. Gordon had gone outside in his coat and slippers to look for June. Now, Carole leaves a plant stand in front of the door when she leaves with a note to tell him not to leave.
Gordon often needs steering back on course when he is answering a question. Carole steps in to get him back on track. Yet it becomes apparent early on his memories of his greatest achievements on a football pitch are out of reach, possibly forever. ‘You scored on your debut, is that right?’ ‘I’m not sure now,’ he replies. ‘I just took it for granted, it is more important now than then. I can’t remember a lot of it at all. I can’t. I’m sorry, son.’
I take out an iPad and YouTube provides us with British Pathe News highlights of Gordon’ s second game, England’s win against West Germany in Berlin.
We watch the first few minutes. ‘Duncan Edwards cuts through the defence like a knife through butter’ declares the commentator as the Manchester United left-half scores a magnificent goal. Then, as Colin Grainger dribbles into the box to score England’s second, a teammate wearing the No7 shirt that is now draped over t he arm of Gordon’s armchair, sprints into shot. Gordon points at the screen. ‘Wow. Is that me? That’s me, there. That one. Yep, yep. It was the other fella scoring it, like. But that’s me. No7. This was against Germany, was it? Lovely. Thank you.’
I ask about the FA Cup final that year. Gordon played for Birmingham City, huge favourites against Manchester City. He did an interview eight years ago in which he relived every moment of their shock 3- 1 defeat, including the heroics of City goalkeeper Bert Trautmann. Those memories, too, have gone. ‘It was a long time ago,’ he says. ‘I’ve forgotten all about it now. It’s amazing how you forget times with people.’
At least he says he has, but when that game’s highlights begin with the teams walking out, the names suddenly fly off the tongue. ‘That’s Gil Merrick, the goalkeeper. Jeff Hall...Len Boyd...Peter Murphy.’ He remembers his old nicknames, too. ‘Flash! Flash Gordon.’
Apparently he was pretty sharp in his day. ‘ I wasn’t too bad, son. Cannonball, too. I could crack the ball decent.’ The wages, too. £20 a week. ‘How times have changed.’
Whatever memories this cruel disease have hidden from him, they have not yet taken away the man. Gordon is charming, funny, and even shows off his party trick of picking up bits of fluff off the carpet without bending his knees.
‘Oh it’s easy, no problem,’ he grins as he stands upright again. No problem for a man who has had three hip replacements, a new knee and is, let us not forget, 92.
When he sits down again, a dog jumps on to his lap. Winnie the whippet. She belongs to Carole. Gordon wraps her up in his arms
‘I WAS JUST AN ORDINARY FOOTBALLER, NOTHING ELSE. IT WAS THE GAME, PURELY AND SIMPLY, THAT I LOVED’
and gives her a kiss. Who’s quicker, Flash or the dog? ‘Over a period of time, me! I’m not as quick as I used to be, though!’
His humility s hi nes t hrough whatever else holds him back. ‘I was just an ordinary footballer, nothing else,’ he says. ‘It was football, purely and simply, that I loved. I was surprised to be a professional.’
He has always been this way, Carole says. ‘I’ve done things I never even thought of,’ adds Gordon. ‘ Playing for your country, I was chuffed as hell, especially when you think of the players at the same time as me. I enjoyed football and then age crept i n and you couldn’t do these things.’
Gordon retired in 1963 after an achilles injury cut short his couple of years playing for Torquay. After football, he delivered newspapers before going into insurance. He was a keen darts player, excelled at bowls and loved his golf. He does not play any of them now. He lives alone. Carole comes at least four times a week. As well as Linda, another childhood friend, Kirstie, cares for him. Gordon has a son, too, called David. Four grandchildren. Ten great grandchildren.
The FA have not been in touch ahead of the 1,000th game. It is perhaps understandable, as Gordon has been the oldest living England international for just two weeks. He inherited that honour from Bert Mozley, the ex-Derby defender who won three caps in 1949 and passed away on October 28, aged 96.
This interview was meant to be with Bert. After a couple of phone calls to Victoria, British Columbia where he had been living with Jean, his wife of 74 years, we received an email from his daughter, Lynne, to inform us Bert and Jean had been ill and in hospital and, sadly, her father had died. ‘My dad was chuffed that you had called,’ said Lynne.
Back in Torquay, it is two hours since we arrived. It is time to go. ‘It’s been a pleasure to meet you, Flash.’ He grasps my hand and smiles. ‘You too, son. Take care, now. Thank you for taking an interest.’
Carole says she found it fitting when we called because her dad always had the Mail.
He had been reading it the other morning over breakfast when he stopped, turned to Carole, puzzled, and wondered why there had not been a report about him. Well, here you go Gordon. There is today.