He was a flamboyantly gifted footballing maverick and off the pitch he was also known for being a snappy dresser, an accomplished Elvis Presley impersonator and a real ladies man. It’s no wonder then, that Leicester City striker Frank Worthington was my teenage hero back in the early 1970s.
FW seen here embarrassing silly Gooners Armstrong and Brady.
I remember one school holiday, I was making my way to Saint Margaret’s bus station on my way home, when I spotted my idol strutting towards me near Bailey’s in the Haymarket. He had a rock star aura about him; dressed from head to toe in white, his manly, medallioned chest exposed to the elements, his then squeeze, a gorgeous blond Swedish model on his arm. As our paths crossed, he smiled knowingly when he clocked me gawping at him in total awe.
There was so much for the adolescent me to admire: his footballing genius, his style and of course his ability to pull women, seemingly at will. However, in spite of all that, I continue to celebrate Frank for one of his lesser known qualities, that of a gifted and inspirational English teacher. Let me elaborate.
I was watching a game, I think it might have been against Southampton, in a part of Filbert Street known as the Popular or the “Pop”, which was opposite the Main Stand and tunnel. Frank was determinedly chasing after a loose ball that was speeding towards the Pop touchline. As it went out of play, the linesman raised his flag in favour of our opponents. Clearly frustrated at having just failed to keep the ball in play, my hero immediately expressed his disagreement with the decision by bellowing: “c***!” at said official.
As the C-Bomb landed, its vitriol was palpable and the then unworldly me was simultaneously shocked and spellbound by its sheer power. Of course, I had no idea what the word actually meant; I was still digesting the recent revelation that, according to my schoolmates, a twat was a pregnant goldfish. However, I instinctively knew just by the way Frank had said it, that it must be a very rude word indeed!
That experience immediately cemented this succinct and powerful expletive into my adolescent lexicon of profanities, where it was to lie dormant for a decade or two before becoming a staple of my arsenal of invective. These days, unsurprisingly, I have recourse to employ it with increasing frequency.
Sadly, Frank passed away in 2021. Thankfully, his linguistic legacy lives on and I shall always remain indebted to him for introducing me to this most versatile of profanities.
FW stylishly sporting my favourite LCFC shirt (1973-1975). Note the litter strewn terrace in the background. Obviously, no one could be arsed to sweep it up before the photo sshoot. Lazy c***s and so very 1970s.
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