Politicians have a long history of getting football wrong. David Cameron once forgot which club he supported. Andy Burnham has managed something rather different: he knows exactly which club he supports, but appears to have forgotten how football governance in England actually works.
The Prime Minister is an ardent Evertonian and a lifelong fan, which is genuinely refreshing in a world where performative fandom is commonplace. But his call to lift the ban on drinking in view of the pitch, and his subsequent U-turn, belong to the same folksy politics as some of his predecessors.
Burnham’s original case was that football fans are treated differently from spectators at other sports, most of which allow alcohol in view of the pitch. He also pointed to legislation that dates from an era defined by fan violence and poor safety standards. His view that the blanket prohibition deserves reconsideration is, in itself, fair. Indeed, the WSL and WSL2 have already moved in this direction following an 18-month trial, with almost all clubs taking up the option.
But the Prime Minister’s argument centred on fairness: why should football supporters be treated differently? The answer is that different environments can and should have different rules. Football has a distinct history of crowd disorder, segregation and large away support. That tribalism is part of what makes the game special, but it is also why the game is treated differently. To label that ‘discrimination’ is deliberately inflammatory.
This is why the police response matters. The UK Football Policing Unit argued explicitly that football continues to experience violence and criminal behaviour that other sports generally do not, and warned that alcohol can play a role in disorder. If Burnham wants to remove a restriction designed specifically around football, the burden is on him to demonstrate that the circumstances which justified it have genuinely disappeared.
What makes the proposal look more ridiculous is that fans aren’t even pushing for it. The overwhelming reaction from match-going supporters is that the change is unnecessary and potentially unpopular. Do fans really want the ‘Boxpark-ification’ of Premier League stadia, with beers thrown after every goal?
Nor was there much thought given to managing the change. Who pays for the additional policing? Does it apply to all games? What is the punishment for the aforementioned beer throwing? Police concerns reportedly included the extra burden on forces and the prospect of clubs bearing more of the cost. This is ‘vibes’ politics, with little consideration for the ramifications.
Burnham had said he wasn’t going to back away from his long-held view. Yet within days the policy was reportedly being abandoned on the advice of police and Whitehall, a retreat Sky’s political reporting put down to the costs and practicalities involved.
So what changed? Not Burnham’s principles. If consultation with policing experts was essential, and clearly it was, why did it not happen before the Prime Minister publicly presented the change as something that should happen?
“Let fans have a pint” is wonderfully uncomplicated politics. But government isn’t about whether an idea sounds reasonable. It is about whether the idea survives contact with the consequences. The U-turn isn’t evidence that Burnham was wrong to question the law. It is evidence that he hadn’t done enough thinking before questioning it publicly.
Football has spent decades trying to make stadiums safer, more inclusive and more attractive to families. If alcohol in the stands is going to return, it should be because an evidence-based trial demonstrates that it works, not because a prime minister thinks it would be nice to have a pint while watching Everton. Equally, it shouldn’t remain prohibited simply because the law was written in 1985.
Andy Burnham was right to ask the question but wrong to pretend the answer was simple. That is where the easy political pint became a much harder question of policy.
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