James ‘Jim’ Mossop, widely recognised as one of the great sportswriters of his generation, has died at the age of 89; a multi-talented journalist, he worked for the Sunday Express and the Telegraph and was a former chairman of the FWA; here, SJA Life Member Norman Giller remembers his old pal…
It was just recently that I said to Jimmy (James) Mossop, “Blimey, there will be nobody left to write our obituaries.”
This followed the passing of much-admired, mutual old pal John Roberts. The next thing I know is that Jim has gone and followed him into the great press box in the sky, 89 and out.
That’s two great Fleet Street sports oaks cut down within weeks of each other. You can read about John’s passing here, which leaves me to do my best with an obituary for dear James.
All three of us earned our daily bread in our peak years with Express Newspapers, John and I with the Daily and Jim the Sunday, where he was a long-time understudy to the inestimable Alan Hoby before taking over the reins as an always readable chief sports columnist.
My pet name for James was ’Busy Bollocks’. Sorry if anybody finds that offensive, but I can assure you I used it in an affectionate context. He was one of those multi-talented sportswriters who could turn his hand and well-delivered descriptive phrases to any sport, any occasion, any arena.
He covered the little matter of 10 World Cups, eight Olympic Games, dozens of world title fights, major golf tournaments, tennis championships, horse racing epics and Formula One races, always with an expert eye and managing to sound authoritative and well-informed. He was like a linguist who has conquered every tongue.
What a lot of people did not know is that Barrow boy James was also a nature lover who could write beautifully about the birds and the bees, and capturing them like a master artist working at his easel.
Along the way, he twice received commendations in the British Press Awards, and was the SJA’s Olympic Writer of the Year in 1992, when he made his Sunday Express readers feel they were alongside him in Barcelona. He also managed to squeeze in chairmanship of the Football Writers’ Association and was acknowledged as a walking record book on the Beautiful Game.
His career started on the North West Evening Mail in Barrow in the 1950s. He later spent the majority of his career at the Express and, in his autumn years, the Sunday Telegraph, always with superbly written masterpieces submitted with a quiet modesty that made him quality company.
I was with Jim at the Royal Garden Hotel in Kensington on the July 30 day that England became 1966 World Cup winners (all recorded in a book I’ve got coming out soon called ‘World Cup 1966’, with an introduction by hat-trick hero Sir Geoff Hurst. James will be applauding this plug).
As the exultant players came out from the oh-so-boring after-match banquet, big Jack Charlton spotted Jim and gave him a bear-like hug.
“Thank goodness I’ve found somebody to share my night with,” said Big Jack, in his raw North East accent. “We’re going on the piss. My Pat’s at home expecting a bairn, all the other players have got their wives or girlfriends with them. Tonight, Jim, you’re my date.”
‘But I’ve hardly got a penny on me,” said Jim.
“Don’t worry,” said Jack, “I’ve got enough to keep us in drink for a month.” He took a wad of £5 notes from his pocket – £100 in all – that had been paid to him for wearing a branded pair of boots.
The Odd Couple swam in champagne in the swish Astor Club in Mayfair, with well-heeled people fighting to buy them drinks, and not a penny of the £100 was needed.
Eight hours later, they woke up side by side on a sofa in the lounge of a terraced house in Walthamstow, East London, neither of them knowing how they got there.
Apparently, it had been a good party.
Jack and James walked out into the back garden to get some air, and a middle-aged woman called over the neighbouring fence in a thick Geordie accent: “Aren’t you young Jackie Charlton? I used to live on the same street as you in Ashington. How’s your mam?”
Not surprisingly, Jack wondered if he was dreaming it all, and he said to Jim: “Pinch me, so that I know this is all real.”
Jim ate out on the true story for years.
Rest easy, master. By the way, who’s going to write MY obituary?
An online tribute page for James ‘Jim’ Mossop can be visited here. You can follow Norman Giller on X.
If you are interested in sharing your memories of Jim via publication on the SJA website, please email us – we welcome your contributions.
Further reading…
James Mossop, RIP (Football Writers’ Association)
AGW Tributes to James Mossop (Association of Golf Writers)
Jim Mossop: The End Of The Jazz Age (Press Box hosted by Graham Spiers)
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