Amidst the depressing backdrop of hooliganism and the imminent threat of ID cards, grounds during the 1988–89 campaign could be downbeat, grey and sometimes largely deserted. On the face of it, life could have been especially grim for Manchester City fans, given that this was now the second consecutive campaign they’d competed in the Second Division.
But City still had the sixth-highest average attendance across the four divisions and, in their shiny sky-blue kit, had harvested a rich crop of English talent from their youth team, including lightning-quick winger David White, midfielder Paul Lake – tipped for an England call-up – and forward Paul Moulden, who’d plundered an absurdly high number of goals at youth-team level and was now scoring for the first team too. A year before, they put an eye-catching 10 goals past Malcolm Macdonald’s Huddersfield Town, with Paul Stewart (who was sold to Tottenham at season’s end), Tony Adcock and White each grabbing a hat-trick. But what also caught the eye was the fact that on the terraces, City fans really had gone bananas.
The inflatables craze was the most remarkable of the late-80s football fads because, unlike the Mexican wave, hundreds of which now rippled around English stadia during quiet moments during matches, or strikers’ penchant for aeroplane-styled celebrations, copied from Brazil striker Careca, it wasn’t influenced by the 1986 World Cup in Mexico. Instead, it originated from a bet between Manchester City fan Frank Newton and his friend Allen Busby. During a visit to Busby’s house, Newton spotted an inflatable banana and asked if he could “borrow” it. Allen replied: “Only if you take it to a City match.” The reply came: “That was exactly what I intended to do anyway,” so the deal was sealed. He recalled some amusement amongst the supporters around him at City’s match against Plymouth. “Being the type of person I am, if I start doing something, I’ll continue doing it,” Newton told me, “and it took on a life of its own after that.”
Another friend – Mike Clare – penned a face on the banana, adding a bobble hat and a City shirt for good measure. Then came the incident that made the whole fad literally go viral. With City fans chanting for the introduction of substitute striker Imre Varadi, Newton hoisted his banana aloft. The chant changed from “Imre Varadi” to “Imre Banana”. “The whole thing was totally spontaneous,” Newton said. “I never originally brought the inflatable along in homage to Imre, contrary to what’s often been written.” Soon, there were bunches of inflatables proliferating across Maine Road and at their away matches.
Visually, the effect on the largely monochrome terraces and stands of the late 80s – an era before replica and retro kits were commonplace – was stunning. Novelty shops in the area quickly sold out of inflatable bananas. City’s tiny club shop, with its battered front door, managed by Janice Monk, stocked a job lot of them but repeatedly ran out. The craze fitted perfectly with the fact that Manchester City were regarded as a little alternative. “To support City back then, you had to go against the trend and have a mind of your own. There were rather easier options in the north-west when it came to supporting football clubs,” Newton said. In contrast to the middle of the road dirge blared out by most stadium Tannoys in that era, the Maine Road sound system went all “Madchester” – blaring out hits by local bands the Happy Mondays, the Stone Roses and The Charlatans. Young City players, who sometimes also strutted their stuff at the country’s most hip nightclub – the Hacienda – fully embraced the craze, tossing fully inflated bananas into the crowd on a couple of occasions. “I thought it was brilliant,” explained former defender Ian Brightwell. “It was about having fun and expressing yourself, which football should be all about.”
In October 1988, there was a murmur among Manchester City fans who travelled to see their young team play West Bromwich Albion at the Hawthorns. Then it became a rumpus. Even the City players got distracted from the game and turned around to see what all the commotion was about. On one side of a gaggle of fans, an enormous blow-up Frankenstein’s monster was hoisted aloft. On the other, a gigantic dinosaur appeared. After edging slowly toward one another, Frankie and Dino became embroiled in a full-on brawl, much to the delight of City fans, who chanted “Dino, Dino” or “Frankie, Frankie” depending on which side they were standing. Goading them on, hordes of City fans jabbed both monsters with their inflatable bananas. Just as it seems things couldn’t get any stranger, a blow-up dinghy and a giant fried egg were hurled into the mix too. The inflatables craze was in full swing.
The inflatables craze quickly spread. West Ham fans started taking blow-up hammers to games; Bury fans black puddings; Grimsby Town fans haddocks; and even some Manchester United fans got in on the act, taking inflatable Red Devils into Old Trafford with them. City fanzines King of the Kippax and Blue Print were influential in whipping up the craze, and a Daily Mirror article suggested that in an era of fences and hooliganism, the inflatables craze was just the job. “Bananas To You Maggie” ran a headline. Newton – an assistant computer analyst – was labelled a “banana boffin” who’d instigated the “Bananarama craze”.
Satirical comic Viz got in on the act with its cartoon strip about Tommy “banana” Johnson. The titular character Tommy would unhelpfully offer his giant banana to people in order to solve their problems. Each strip ended with Tommy having the giant banana inserted into him by an irate policeman. I asked Frank Newton if City fans encountered similar opposition to the bananas at grounds. “Crystal Palace objected on the grounds they thought it was racist,” Newton explained, “which it most certainly wasn’t.” Arsenal became the first club to ban the bananas, on the grounds they obstructed spectators’ views. But after a last-day inflatables hurrah at Bradford City’s Valley Parade on the afternoon City sealed promotion back to the top flight in 1989 (“We passed a pick-up truck on the M62, and there, in an inflated paddling pool at the back were some City fans, swigging cans of beer and saluting us,” recalled Ian Brightwell), the craze had petered out. “It ran its course, like all fads do,” Newton said. “And suddenly, there were no inflatables at games.”
But City fans of that era will always remember with affection the beautiful and bizarre Boxing Day clash with Stoke City at the Victoria Ground in 1988. Some 12,000 supporters piled down the M6 in full fancy-dress mode, dressed as penguins, superheroes and Father Christmas, clutching bananas, paddling pools, giant golf clubs and crocodiles. “It was,” reckoned City fan David Wright, “the most glorious, eclectic sight I ever saw at a football match.”
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Tipped off that the Victoria Ground was about to be invaded, Stoke allocated both the Butler Street End and the Stoke End paddocks to the visiting fans. To the embarrassment of City’s players, Stoke comprehensively beat them 3–1 despite the raucous atmosphere created by their fans. “There were fellas dressed as clowns on the terraces,” recalled Paul Lake, “but sadly there were 11 clowns on the pitch in sky-blue shirts. We let them down badly.” Blue Print founder Mike Kelly was at the game dressed as a Canadian Mountie and ended up standing in the middle of the street directing the traffic. One burly man wandered past Frank Newton outside the ground dressed in just a nappy. “It was very surreal,” Newton said. “But then, supporting City in those days often was.”
These days, Manchester City are all-conquering, and football, says Newton, “is completely mainstream, with little scope to push the outer bounds of normality.” That said, the club have recently paid homage to the city’s “Madchester” past, incorporating Ben Kelly’s black and yellow Hacienda pillar design into the sleeves of their 2018–19 away kit. In 2016, for a League Cup clash with Everton at the Etihad Stadium, the club announced it would be a banana-themed evening. Lads and lasses of a certain age dusted down their inflatables from nearly 30 years before and headed to the match. It was a reminder of an era when, with football fans vilified and the game’s image seemingly tarnished beyond repair, the inflatables craze put a smile back on some fans’ faces and showed that going to football matches could actually be fun.
And more than a little bizarre.
Go To War: Football On the Brink in the 80’s, by Jon Spurling, published by Biteback, price: £20
Source: theguardian.com
