Grandstand and World of Sport - it's what Saturdays were all about, the 1950s,60s and 70s

Grandstand and World of Sport, Saturday's sporting gems.

It's at times like this that my nostalgia filled head begins to ache for those two outstanding TV sports gems. Grandstand, the BBC's jewel in the crown and ITV, with their sports magazine offering World of Sport were like two lovable uncles arguing  about the price of bread and milk. Ah yes I hear you cry. The good old days. They were the best were they not? That's it. You had Dickie Davies on one side and for much of my youth Frank Bough, occasionally David Coleman then the suave and genial Des Lynam with that almost soft and relaxed voice, a voice that oozed calm, poise and cool professionalism.

But those days are no longer with us because maybe they belonged to the 1960s,70s and 80s. The cynics insist that they are now well past by their sell by date. Sport on TV was somehow an essential way of life on a Saturday afternoon. You switched on the box, adjusted that wonky old TV aeriel, banged the top of the telly with all your might if the set didn't work and then hoped that the fuzzy picture would right itself eventually.

While I was growing up, my parents always rented our TV. We had this small wooden box in the corner with the most fragile looking glass which acted as a screen. The goldfish bowls of the 1950s had now been replaced by something whizzier and more technologically advanced. The size of the screen was so small that there were times when, I feel sure, my parents found themselves in desperate need of a microscope or a good pair of binoculars.

The sophistication of the big 26 inch colour set had yet to take Britain by storm. In fact for most of my childhood the monochrome beauty of black and white would take pride of place in the corner of our living room. Ours was DER and a TV that had quite the most incredible dial indicating the two channels we could only receive until the advent of BBC2 which crept into our world almost grudgingly in 1967.

From what I can remember the dial itself consisted of random numbers which bore no relation to the channels themselves. Amusingly there were the unnecessary channels which seemed to be swallowed up by black and white shadows, completely lacking in any kind of clarity. Anyway we survived the whole ordeal because the BBC were the Voice of the Establishment and ITV were the smaller boys in the playground, threatening the BBC's haughty superiority but then throwing in the towel because they just couldn't keep up with them. I'm sure they weren't playground bullies but they did challenge them in the audience ratings. Occasionally it was fisticuffs and pistols at dawn but then both agreed to disagree and from time to time they kissed and made up. It was like a French entente cordiale, a gracious reconciliation.

And then so it was that at the end of the 1950s Grandstand one day arrived.. The BBC had given birth to a bonny, bouncing baby. It had red cheeks, a wonderful set of lungs, a voice that could be heard the length and breadth of Shepherds Bush and White City and the brightest of futures in front of it. Sitting proudly behind the desk was the very polished, public school and plummy Peter Dimmock. Now Grandstand would grow into an handsome child with strong white teeth and Dimmock was that assured father figure with impeccable English and quite the most upstanding of English manners.

For almost the whole of a Saturday afternoon Dimmock would claim bragging rights over ITV. There would be horse racing from Ascot mixed in with  juicy sporting snippets including a football magazine programme with Sam Leech and then spicy helpings of athletics and then the rugby. I can still remember the rugby union because although I was partial to a moderate amount of rugby it didn't really hold my attention for much longer than perhaps it should have done.

I can remember being captivated by the magically enthusiastic tones of the great Bill Mclaren but rugby just faded away rather like one of those Radio Luxembourg broadcasts. I did like though the then Five Nations tournament which always started at the beginning of February. Mclaren somehow brought rugby union to life with those rich Scottish vowels and consonants. Mclaren decorated the game of rugby union with those vivid splashes of colour and phrases that were somehow invented for the game of rugby union.

 When Mclaren waxed lyrical about line outs, rucks or scrums, Grandstand viewers knew where they stood. They believed they were actually at Mclaren's native Murrayfield or thumping over an oval ball between the posts at Twickenham. The Welsh of course were of course like an instinctive force of nature and when Gareth Edwards, Phil Bennett and Barry John were in full flow, Mclaren quoted Rabbie Burns. Yeats and Wordsworth. Wales were like a royal procession and then produced some of the most breathtaking hand to hand rugby the Scotsman had ever seen. It was as though the Grandstand viewers were being transported to some far off land of sweetness and light where sport was perfect.

Then right at the end of the day when it all became very serious and businesslike Grandstand gave us the classified football results. Here David Coleman would stand very formally in front of a huge board featuring all of the old First, Second, Third Division and Fourth Division. For a while it would become the regional North and South but all the while we'd all scrramble around for our football Pools coupon in the hope of striking it rich with the requisite eight draws.

 There was a real sense of personality about this time, an edge and piquancy about it. The classified football results was very much male territory, something that symbolised the role of husband and father. Of course the mums took a passing interest but Grandstand had a masculine trademark all of its own and all mums were interested to know was whether dad was still on speaking terms with the rest of the family. Football defined men and still does but Grandstand more or less determined dad's mood for the rest of the evening.

While the results were trickling in steadily, Coleman pointed to the teams on the board and then began to highlight the significance of the League tables. The scores were stuck almost dutifully onto the scoreboard and the whole of Britain would be satisfied and put at their ease. Then a now prehistoric looking teleprinter would chatter away to its heart content. Every so often this strange mechanism would print the results on to an endless sheet of paper and the ribbon would tap out the results with an almost metronomic charm. In thick black capitals Northampton 4 Grimsby 2 would roll across the TV screen furiously like a greyhound chasing a hare on a dog track.

Meanwhile on the other side ITV were giving us their version, a sporting variation on a theme. Now what can you say about London Weekend Television? I think I must have discovered World of Sport on one very innocent Saturday afternoon when the Saturday film on BBC 2, had become more or less part of the TV furniture. Then as if from nowhere World of Sport unexpectedly strutted onto the big stage like some fancy peacock flaunting its feathers. If the BBC could give us a rich diet of sport then ITV could do that just as well and perhaps even better.

Sport is now a wealthy, well packaged global commodity but for ITV World of Sport must have seemed like some glamorous cabaret artist who hadn't quite hit the big time. World of Sport then materialised like some pretty comet in the sky or some distant star that kept winking at you flirtatiously. But World of Sport was mean, moody and menacing and ready to face up to the BBC.

Suddenly there was Dickie Davies, a complete unknown but towards the end of the 1960s Davies would appear in a TV studio in his immaculately pristine shirt, suit and tie. Before becoming a TV sports presenter Davies had lived life on the ocean wave as a ship's entertainer. Now he would establish himself on the main deck with an afternoon of sport, wit, whimsicality and happy go lucky humour. All that World of Sport was missing was the on board game of quoits and breezy blarney, a TV figure for all seasons including the football season.

Oh yes we thought our Dickie was our Saturday afternoon treat. He made you feel good about yourself. He sold sport rather like the most persuasive salesman you'd ever met. He was a nice guy rather like a cheerful market trader who never gets down. He smiled almost permanently for the camera and then dispensed those homely words of wisdom that warmed the hearts of millions.

World of Sport gave us On the Ball, an informative football magazine show with the estimable and admirable Brian Moore. It was the lunchtime snack that kept on giving full of nutritious flavours and good, wholesome meat. And then World of Sport seemed to go off on this wonderful journey into the unknown, a land of mystique and familiar terrain.

The ITV 7 was ITV's horse racing spectacular. The ITV 7 would whisk the country away on some giddy and euphoric merry go round. There was Sandown,  Redcar, Uttoxeter, Haydock Park, Towcester and all points north, south and west. Nobody thought ITV had a chance. They were just dreaming, whistling in the wind if they ever thought they could compete with the BBC coverage with the likes of Dimmock, Coleman and the very capable Frank Bough. It was though a real and plausible contender to the BBC throne.

But undaunted, ITV knucked down hard for the fight and competed ferociously. They followed the horse racing with stock car racing, caber tossing from the Highland Games, log rolling, cheese chasing and cliff diving. World of Sport took us on a dizzy merry go round of the mysterious and the eclectic. They gave us darts with its ever growing and fanatical fan base, snooker which was just hynoptically fascinating and the outrageous wrestling, a sport that was unique but appealing. The critics must have thought it was somehow degrading and demeaning but my grand-dad loved it so who am I to pass judgement. And then there was chess, squash from time to time, no cricket much to ITV's regret and no rugby which was the BBC's property anyway.

And here am I on this late November afternoon reflecting on the desolate wasteland that is TV Sport. There's a pitiful apology for a BBC sports show which seems to last for roughly twenty minutes and seems like a withering insult rather than a sports programme. Meanwhile on ITV there is nothing at all or seemingly nothing at all. I'm inclined to think there's a conspiracy going on here. I think there's a sinister hidden agenda here. Those TV executives are not telling us something. We have a right to know. We still have our two weeks of Wimbledon tennis on the BBC but even the golf has vanished in the Sky and even the horse racing seems to be flip flopping between the channels.

 Maybe sport is no longer that valuable asset it used to be. Perhaps it's quite content to lurk on the sidelines rather like a substitute in football limbering up on the touchlines. Sport just seems to be like an ethnic minority rather than the popular majority. There is something very heartbreaking, even poignant about the lack of proper sport. Maybe TV has just forgotten about sport, cold shouldering, boycotting and ostracising it as if it had committed some heinous sin.

 Sport deserves something much better, something that is far more enriching and life affirming. It needs to bring back Grandstand or World of Sport or even both. Those TV executives have got a lot to answer for. I think this should be properly debated in the House of Commons, legislation passed with a full hearing at the Old Bailey. There is a terrible miscarriage of justice and the powers that be must examine their conscience. I hereby claim a guilty verdict on those who refuse to bring back proper TV sport. They should be ashamed of themselves.

But then we look back to those golden years of Saturday sport on the TV when it had colour, joy, individuality, Brian Moore wearing a thick brown sheepskin coat and sitting on a cold, wintry TV gantry on a Saturday afternoon. We remember its soul, its feeling, its nervous tension, John Rickman doffing his trilby hat at the horse racing, its spontaneity, its glittering presentation, that plane in the sky which introduced World of Sport and then its blissful disregard of rules, regulations and boundaries. How I miss World of Sport and Grandstand. We miss the activity, electricity, the magic of it all, the unexpected novelty of it all, the thrilling anticipation, Wembley Stadium on Cup Final day when it all came right or wrong. Above all we miss sport.