Farewell Stan the Man – the ultimate maverick No10
By Jeff Powell MBE
THERE was something of a tradition in days of yore for young football reporters to gather for a beer before Saturday matches at QPR’s Loftus Road ground. Stan The Man would breeze into the Queen’s Tavern in South Africa Road about half an hour before the 3pm kick-off, after popping into the corner shop to buy a packet of fags.
He would smoke the first of those cigarettes for luck, down his pint, then stop at the adjacent betting shop to place his bets for the day’s races. He would make it to the home dressing room too late for the manager’s team talk but just in time to pull on his kit and boots and run last out of the tunnel. To roars of acclamation from the crowd.
Whether or not there was a break in play he would drift towards the touchline shortly before half time and call out to a couple of regular fans close to the home dug-out, who would tell him which nag had won the 3.30 at somewhere like Haydock Park.
That would be repeated during the second half for information on more of the day’s races. After the post-match interviews — always jocular affairs win or lose on the gee-gees or in the game — we would reconvene at the pub. Then he would be off carousing through Saturday night with Don Shanks, his team-mate and flat-mate. Perhaps via a punter’s house call at the nearest dog track.
Of all the maverick wearers of the iconic No 10 shirt who left the game with their lavish talent only partly fulfilled, Stanley Bowles was the supreme rascal.
Like his soul-mates of the Seventies he played precious few games for England, untrusted at the highest level as they all were by such professionally demanding managers as Sir Alf Ramsey and Don Revie.
Rodney Marsh, who he replaced as the showman of Queen’s Park Rangers but who faltered at Manchester City, would find eventually a natural niche for himself as a great entertainer in US soccer.
Alan Hudson, idolised at Chelsea, had his genius tragically cut short by devastating injuries inflicted by a hit and run driver in a London street. Tony Currie suffered throughout his career by football wounds but did score goals-aplenty in hundreds of games in the First Division forerunner to the Premier League, to the adoration of his public at Sheffield United.
A couple of centre-forwards were fully paid up members of The Great Unpredictables beloved by the people. Charlie George played but 60 minutes on his solitary England appearance under Revie but starred in Arsenal’s 1971 League and Cup Double winning team before his rebellious nature got the better of his manager. Frank Worthington played just eight time for his country but brought enchantment as well as goals with his socks down, for Huddersfield, Bolton, Leicester, Birmingham and Leeds. As well as bringing delight to those city centres by night with his brilliant impersonation of his idol Elvis Presley.
Sadly Stan Bowles has now gone the way of Worthington. A high old life brought to a lost, lonely shadowy end in a care home by the curse of Alzheimers.
Shanks, who shared not only living accommodation with him but also prison cells on a couple of occasions when the revelry went way beyond wild, is among friends telling us that Stan stopped recognising any of them as the years crawled by after his diagnosis in 2015.
Nor did he remember so much as a minute of his playing days. Not a moment of his sparse five games for England.
So some of us are left to reminisce about the impudent artistry and carefree extravagance with which Stan lit up Manchester City, Crewe, QPR, Nottingham Forest — where inevitably he fell out with manager Brian Clough after refusing to play in a league match because he had been left out of the team for a testimonial game — Brentford and not least in my case Leyton Orient.
To reflect that when his free spirit was given full flight in the 1975-76 season, surprisingly by that most authoritarian as well as intellectual of managers Dave Sexton, QPR finished as runners up in the League Championship. They finished only one point behind Liverpool and three clear of third placed Manchester United.
That achievement by this club stands as a reminder that not all genius has to come soaked in sweat. That it should still be possible to laugh, joke, make fun, refuse to conform, enjoy every moment to the full... while thrilling the audience and, yes, winning more often than losing.
Miserably, there is as yet no way of juggling and grinning, jinking and bamboozling, scoring and charming your way out of the morbid clutches of dementia. Not even for these most mischievous of sporting minds.
Not even — for all his floppy hats, shiny shoes, drinks in his hand, smokes between his lips and birds on his arm — for Stan The Man.
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