Frank Worthington 23 November 1948 – 23 March 2021

“Frank” – a 70s sitcom character and “Worthington” – a 70s beer. Could the quintessential 70s footballer be more aptly named?

He was, of course, a maverick, cut from the same cloth as George Best and Tony Currie, with the hair, the girls and, to be fair, the skills too, as he could certainly deliver on the pitch when the mood took him.

For Huddersfield Town and Leicester City, he played nearly 400 games, a tall centre-forward with “good feet for a big man”, of no great pace but able to look after himself and get on the end of crosses. An itinerary that would challenge a National Express driver doubled that appearances tally, his 828 career games at more than 20 clubs bringing him 260 goals. He picked up eight England caps too in that crisis year of 1974, when the national team cried out for flair at almost any price as a World Cup Finals was held without the winners of just eight years earlier.

He wasn’t just visible for the unmistakable coiffure and ever-present penalty box swagger, Frank seemed to be on television all the time, whether playing (ITV’s regional coverage was particularly keen on his matches) or as an interviewee at a time when players could take or leave media obligations. (To be honest, I may have some of these memories mixed up with Peter Wyngarde as there was a resemblance). One got the feeling even then that he was building a brand that he later exploited and burnished on the after-dinner circuit. Why the hell not too – they couldn’t all run pubs could they?

Frank’s career was not one of medals nor tangible achievements, though he was the First Division’s top scorer (for Bolton Wanderers no less) in 1978-79, but one that prioritised entertainment. As with all mavericks, you had the feeling that he would have been a more accomplished player had his training not comprised quite so much horizontal jogging and associated habits, but I’m not sure he wanted that. Frank took pleasure in what he did in glorious technicolour, 24-7, and communicated that to us on the terraces at a time when life could be very monochrome in England. If Best was otherworldly in so many ways, it was much easier imagine ourselves as Frank, clambering out of bed on a Sunday morning, failing to leave your number, fluking a keepie-uppie goal on Hackney Marshes, getting an afternoon lock-in.

Perhaps he’ll best be remembered as the face that seemed to amalgamate all those black and white A4 photos in barber shop windows – “Feather cut and something for the weekend Sir?” Yes, that was Frank.