Growing up on the mean streets of South Warwickshire in the 1970s, if a monsoon or snowstorm was on the horizon, and the great outdoors was suddenly out of bounds, our entertainment was restricted to one of three TV channels, Radio One, or the iconic BRMB. It was on BRMB that I first heard Tom Ross — Birmingham City icon and voice of the Blues for as long as I can remember. In a time when the radio was the closest thing you could get to being at an actual game, local radio hosts became the friends you wished you had on the terrace — until, of course, you made friends on the terrace.
Years later, he would be replaced — for me personally — by Graham McGarry. Not at BRMB or even in Birmingham, but certainly on those Saturday afternoons when Crewe were playing away, my student grant had played its last hand, or, more likely, my hangover had played havoc with my Saturday plans.
With the advent of games being played on television on a Saturday, with now even lower-league 3pm kick-offs fighting for the attention of fans, I don’t think you get the same affiliation with radio commentators that we once had. The difference between TV and radio is, of course, a gulf the size of Mexico (never America): the former explains what you can see, while the latter describes what you cannot. To this day, I still occasionally watch football with both the radio on and the TV mute button pressed.
Away from the radio, the other big entertainment that crashed onto the scene in the late 1970s was cinema. In Redditch, my local town across the border, we had a Cannon cinema — three screens that were packed out for every show. I remember many occasions arriving only to be greeted by a line of flare-encrusted teens weaving down Prospect Hill as they waited for the popcorn from the previous show to be cleared.
When you look at a list of the greatest films of all time, there will be a disproportionate number that come from the period between 1976 and 1978. It was a brief but extraordinary era when Hollywood’s creative freedom, new technology, and changing social mood all collided. The major studios had begun trusting a new generation of “movie brats” — directors like Scorsese, Coppola, and Spielberg — who were influenced by European art cinema but also understood American storytelling and spectacle. Audiences, meanwhile, were hungry for bold, emotional, and visually ambitious stories that reflected both the cynicism of the post-Vietnam, post-Watergate age and the optimism of a culture ready for reinvention, all played out on screens in middle England.
Between 1976 and 1978, that energy produced a remarkable run of films. Rocky (1976) captured the underdog spirit of 1970s America and became a pop-culture phenomenon. Taxi Driver (1976) and Network (1976) delivered raw, unsettling portraits of alienation and media manipulation. Close Encounters of the Third Kind (1977) brought a sense of wonder and humanity to science fiction, while Saturday Night Fever (1977) pulsed with the rhythms and contradictions of disco-era urban life. Annie Hall (1977) reinvented the romantic comedy with neurotic wit and emotional realism. By 1978, epics like The Deer Hunter and Superman showed just how wide the cinematic spectrum had become — from harrowing psychological realism to mythic escapism. It was a time when Hollywood balanced artistry and spectacle in a way that would define modern cinema for decades.
But the biggest hit of this generation, and the film that caused queues to wind all the way past the train station, was Star Wars. Released in 1977, George Lucas’s space opera changed everything we thought we knew about filmmaking. Audiences had never seen anything like it — a mythic adventure set “a long time ago in a galaxy far, far away,” combining the timeless hero’s journey with dazzling special effects that pushed the limits of technology. The characters became instant archetypes: the naïve farm boy Luke Skywalker, the fearless Princess Leia, the roguish smuggler Han Solo, and the towering menace of Darth Vader, all supported by a world brought vividly to life through industrial design, model work, and the pioneering motion-control photography of Industrial Light & Magic.
Star Wars didn’t just dominate the box office — it rewrote the rulebook. It transformed how films were marketed, introduced the era of the summer blockbuster, and created a merchandising empire that made toys, posters, and soundtracks part of the storytelling experience. Its success spawned sequels, prequels, spin-offs, and an expanded universe that continues nearly fifty years later. More than that, it inspired an entire generation of filmmakers and audiences to dream bigger, proving that cinema could blend myth, imagination, and technology into something truly universal. Star Wars became so big that even Jar Jar Binks couldn’t bring it down.
An interesting fact about the original Star Wars is that this was all it was. The sequels are now well known as The Empire Strikes Back and Return of the Jedi — later rebranded as Episodes V and VI — but Star Wars had no contemporaries; it stood alone. Only later was it subtitled A New Hope.
As the calendar crept toward the macabre days of October, Willand were welcoming new faces as they bid farewell to familiar ones.
Joining the ranks were new manager Ben Watson, who brought a wealth of experience from Street, Barnstaple and Crediton, alongside his longtime assistant Jack Furzer. On the pitch there were a number of arrivals, including experienced keeper Adam Seedhouse-Evans; Joel Jackson and Calum Thomas, both defenders who come with potential and Southern League experience; Nelson Isegun, who joined from Exmouth; and Harley Sneap, back at the club after a spell at Weymouth Town.
Faces departing the club included defensive stalwarts Jamie Richards and Ross Edwards, who joined Taunton and Exmouth respectively, along with Andy Sowden-Bird, who moved on to Buckland.
The New Hope era at Silver Street started with a visit from high-flying Frome Town, a game that was settled by a River Allen first-half strike, giving Willand three vital points and a winning start for the new management team.
The month then meandered on: heartbreak away to Larkhall when a 92nd-minute equaliser was conceded after leading by two goals in the first five minutes; a cancellation at home to Mousehole thanks to the ever-increasing issues of the M5; followed by a forgettable trip to Portishead that saw both defeat and a sending off for Ashton Hewitt.
If Star Wars were to sponsor a Willand game, it would undoubtedly be the reverse fixture against Hartpury — and the subtitle would read Redemption. The opposition are, of course, the team that put Willand to the sword in the last game of August, a game that many of the starting line-up for the home fixture would have been part of, and undoubtedly wanted revenge for.
A cagey game was fired into life with a Josh Searle special, reminding the home fans of his pedigree as a winger earlier in his career. The demons were further slain in the opening gambits of the second half when Harvey Dorothy beat the keeper and nestled the ball in the bottom corner of the Silver Street goal.
Star Wars sagas aren’t written for 2–0 wins though, and Darth Hartpury pulled a goal back with 20 minutes to go, a shot from an acute angle beating Seedhouse-Evans.
The Resistance lasted until the last five minutes of the game, the equaliser coming from the penalty spot after a clumsy challenge. As the clock ticked over the 90 minutes there was a mixture of relief and disappointment from the home fans. The team had played well and hadn’t capitulated, but there was a worrying sense that we’d once again let a two-goal lead slip. The whole ground felt flat.
The thing about franchises though is that you can’t leave them feeling flat. People wouldn’t have come back for Return of the Jedi if Han Solo hadn’t been frozen in carbonite. Back to the Future might have been back to the drawing board if Doc Brown hadn’t come back to warn Marty about his kids. And there was probably something in The Lord of the Rings and The Hobbit, but they were just adventures in making films longer than they needed to be.
The point is, it wasn’t the end.
In the 95th minute, a throw-in to Willand by the corner flag. The ball is tossed to the near post where it’s flicked on by Tom Bath. Reece Shanley picks up the ball and, in what seemed like slow motion, drives it home with the last kick of the game.
Pandemonium.
I watched the highlights the following day and I swear you can hear me scream from the Baylis Stand as the ball struck the back of the net. It turned out to be cinema at its best. Victory with the last kick of the ball.
In the end it was more than a victory though. It was redemption.
If the game had been broadcast on BBC Devon, what the fans would have heard in those last moments was the sound of hope.
No longer New — but Real.
