So, you like football – a lot of people do. But Ashbourne’s Royal Shrovetide game is for fans who want to take their passion to the next level
Oh, dear. Someone in the crowd has yelled the F-word. And the commentator’s mic has picked it up.
“Apologies for any language there,” he immediately tells the viewers, in accordance with Ofcom guidelines.
Not that any of them seem bothered. Judging by the comments they’re posting, they’d rather keep sharing their thoughts on the game itself (“Carnage!” exclaims one).
That, and asking questions. Questions such as: “What’s happening?”, “Where’s the ball?”, and, from someone who sounds a little baffled by this spectacle she’s stumbled upon: “I’m sorry, what’s this for..?”
Yes, forgive me, I should have explained. This isn’t Sky Sports we’re watching, nor TNT. It’s Facebook Live. And the match isn’t “football” as we know it.
For starters, it’s 100+ a side. Possibly 200. Possibly 300. Hard to tell.
Also, the ball isn’t a normal football. And the goals, each on the site of a former mill, aren’t normal goals. They’re millstones, mounted on plinths in the River Henmore. Plus they’re three miles apart. Tap the ball three times on one of these and you’ve “goaled”, immediately securing hero status.
What we’re watching here is Royal Shrovetide, a somewhat physical game played every year at this time in the Derbyshire market town of Ashbourne: In its streets, its squelchy fields and, yep, its watery bits. The Up’ards, born north of the river, play the Down’ards, born south. Same as they’ve done for centuries.
And our commentator today, for the third year on the trot, is the intrepid Oscar Fisher from the Derby Telegraph newspaper, streaming it for Derbyshire Live.
“We’ll be with you every minute of the game,” he’s assuring us, “getting you as close to the action as we can.”
Two significant promises, those. “Every” minute will add up to…well, a lot of minutes. The game starts (the ball is “turned up”) at 2pm and lasts at least four hours. If it’s still level at 6pm, it continues on a first-goal-wins basis, potentially until 10pm. (For the record, Tuesday’s play will end this year with a late goal for the Up’ards, just after 9.30pm, courtesy of local man Craig Brown.)
As for getting close to the action, best of luck with that. As usual, hundreds of spectators are out on the streets. Oscar must simply find a good vantage point among them. Barging past, shouting: “Her Majesty’s Press! Let me through!”, is not an option. He must rely instead on his selfie stick, plus the fiddly zoom on his mobile.
To be honest, though, he’d be nuts to get too close to the play. In the “hug” (like a scrum), where the truly committed wrestle like loons for the ball (it’s more like a medicine ball, elaborately painted to mark the occasion), things get a bit rough.
Every so often, am urgent cry of: “Medic! Medic!” will ring out (“It’s like you’re on a battlefield,” observes Oscar), summoning St John Ambulance. It’s mostly blood-and-bandages stuff, the odd twisted ankle, but even so.
Ashbourne’s shops, too, risk a battering, hence the hefty planks nailed across their windows. Sadly, the ones across the window of the art gallery aren’t enough to stop it getting smashed, but presumably it’s insured. Either way, nobody would dream of reaching in and nicking one of the unprotected pictures, which says a lot about the spirit of this event. And possibly a lot about the pictures, it’s not my place to say.
Oscar, meanwhile, is doing a fine job on comms, given the limitations. He’s not a local (he’s from Sheffield) but he’s come to love this patch he covers as a reporter, this feisty annual fixture in particular.
With his live stream, he also gets to go beyond the dreary boundaries of standard football commentary. He’s told me he wouldn’t mind giving that a go some day, maybe commentating on a Premier League match for Sky, but how dull he’d surely find it in comparison, no longer able to deliver such brilliant lines as: “The ball’s gone down the alleyway behind Ryman’s” and “It’s back down at Shawcroft Car Park.”
When play concludes for the day, and the goal is ratified (a ceremony in itself), a weary Oscar can finally log off, rewarding himself with a Peroni.
“I’ve got a few blisters,” he tells me, as he psyches himself up for day two. “But I’m fine.”
So he’ll back for Shrovetide 2027, I assume?
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”