Anarchy in the UK – the crazy world of Ashbourne Shrovetide football

November 1976 saw the Sex Pistols – the dark princes of English punk rock – release their debut single, Anarchy in the UK. The Pistols were wild and wayward, and maybe just a little bit bonkers, but even in their maddest dreams they cannot possibly have imagined the crazy world of Ashbourne Shrovetide football. Like the Pistols themselves, Shrovetide football isn’t for the faint-hearted. Anarchy rules, OK.

Unless you’re English you’ve probably never heard of Ashbourne. To be fair, even if you are, the chances are that this quaint little market town of around 8,000 souls nestling in the Derbyshire Peak District has passed you by. It oozes bucolic charm, and is therefore memorably forgettable.

A few years ago a former Ashbourne resident, writing on the student website The Tab, described it as “the most backwards town in the country“. Seems a bit harsh to me, but it has to be said that unless you’re very easily excited, the place won’t set your pulse racing. Except, that is, on Shrove Tuesday and Ash Wednesday, when football comes to town.


PHOTO CREDIT: “10-P2183459” by Jason Crellin is licensed under CC BY-NC-SA 2.0

Shrovetide football bears scant resemblance to any other form of football. The Ashbourne game comprises two teams – the Up’Ards, born north of the local River Henmore, and the Down’Ards, born to its south. The number of players is unlimited, and can exceed a thousand on each side. The goals, where the ball must be touched down to register a score, are three miles (five kilometres) apart.

The game begins in the Shawcroft car park in the centre of Ashbourne, where an eager crowd of thousands gathers. They belt out the national anthem as if their lives depend on it. Then silence falls and the excitement builds, everyone waiting impatiently for the fun to begin.

At last, with the tension close to unbearable, an invited dignitary or celebrity standing on a brick-built podium “turns up” the ball – lavishly painted, filled with cork for added buoyancy and about the size of a Halloween pumpkin – into the expectant horde of pumped-up masculinity. Testosterone hangs heavy in the air, so thick you could butter toast with it. No rules prevent women from participating, but good sense persuades most to take a back-seat and let their menfolk do the hard graft and risk the consequences.


PHOTO CREDIT: “05-P2183439” by Jason Crellin is licensed under CC BY-NC-SA 2.0

The objective of the game is straightforward. The Up’Ards must carry the ball to Sturston Mill, south of Ashbourne, and “goal” by tapping it three times against a millstone. Sounds simple, doesn’t it? The only problem they face is the thousand or so Down’Ards who are blocking the way and baying for blood.

Meanwhile, the aim of the Down’Ards is to carry the ball to Clifton Mill, north of the town, where they also must “goal it”. Inevitably, they find their passage blocked by at least a thousand incensed Up’Ards, whose ambition is to prevent this happening by means both cunning and brutal.

As you will have worked out by now, Shrovetide football has no designated pitch or playing field. The game is played through the streets of the town, and the sprawling farmland beyond, occasionally spilling into the freezing river. It is the original “game without borders.”

Proceedings are boisterous, chaotic and occasionally violent. Shopkeepers close their businesses and protect their premises with wooden boards and shutters, car owners move their vehicles out of harm’s way and paramedics are on standby. Schools close for the day, lest students get caught up in the mayhem. Injuries are common, although fatalities are mercifully very rare.


PHOTO CREDIT: “21-P2183512” by Jason Crellin is licensed under CC BY-NC-SA 2.0

Play begins at 2pm on Shrove Tuesday (Mardi Gras) and finishes eight hours later. Battered, bruised and bloodied, the players limp off home to lick their wounds, only to assemble the following day at 2pm to do it all again. Despite 16 hours of play, it is rare for more than two goals to be scored in any year. Sometimes, the result is a nil-nil draw, and every year the broken limbs, bruises, sprains and strains outnumber the goals scored.

You can count the rules on the fingers of one hand. Players must not enter churchyards or cemeteries, and must refrain from hiding the ball or attempting to carry it on a motor vehicle. In addition, murder is frowned upon. But with these few exceptions, pretty much anything goes.

“Mob football”, as the Ashbourne game is classified, has a long history – dating back at least to the 13th century – and was once widespread in rural England. Inevitably the mayhem it caused was resented by the wealthier and more refined types, those who had the most to lose from mass outbreaks of anarchic behaviour.


PHOTO CREDIT: “02-P2183425” by Jason Crellin is licensed under CC BY-NC-SA 2.0

Eventually these elite groups got their way, and mob football went into serious decline in the nineteenth century after the 1835 Highway Act banned the playing of football on public highways. But it clung on in Ashbourne, and a few other places including Workington and Sedgefield in northern England, and Kirkwall in the Orkney Islands of Scotland.

Shrovetide football remains a much-loved tradition amongst Ashbourne people, a demanding endurance test for all the participants, and also a rite of passage for lads wishing to follow in the hallowed footsteps of previous generations of men in their families. Many former residents return to the town every year to take part or watch from the side-lines, and tourists visit in droves to see what all the fuss is about. For two days every year, Shrovetide football ensures that Ashbourne has a national – and even international – profile.

And now to the question that’s been on your mind as you’ve read this post – has the Platypus Man ever played Shrovetide football? The answer is an emphatic ‘no,’ and although Ashbourne lies just a few miles from Platypus Towers I’ve never attended as a spectator either. Frankly, life’s too short and my body is way too fragile to risk the frenzy of the mob. Have a look at this short video, on the Guardian’s website, and you’ll understand everything!

Don’t get me wrong, I’m delighted that this relic from our country’s medieval past hangs on in deepest, darkest Derbyshire. But I’m glad too that, thanks to the wonders of the Internet, I can read about it and watch YouTube videos of the highlights in own home, secure in the knowledge that there are several miles and a very sturdy brick wall between me and the madness.

A little bit of Anarchy in the UK isn’t without its appeal, but only when viewed from a safe distance.


  1. kathee2013 · March 4, 2020

    This game sounds like controlled chaos! It’s a bit like our football but with only two rules. They do whatever they can to get that goal. I could never take the body beating they get. I bet they have fun in a self defense mode that requires they all suffer from bumps and bruises. I can understand the excitement. It’s really too bad it’s so unruly. The little town could make a penny or two with the arrival of spectators.

    Sent from my iPad


    Liked by 1 person

    • Platypus Man · March 5, 2020

      Spectators do indeed turn up to watch, but find the shops and cafes boarded up to protect windows and doors being smashed by the sheer weight of numbers. The transformation of the town over just a few days from tranquil backwater to raging sea of unruliness and then back again must be very unsettling, but as it’s been happening for hundreds of years I suppose the locals have learned how to cope!

      Liked by 1 person

  2. tanjabrittonwriter · March 5, 2020

    Truth is indeed stranger than fiction! Where else but in England would such a frenzy be possible? 🙂

    Liked by 1 person

  3. Ann Mackay · March 5, 2020

    Viewing ‘mob football’ from a safe distance is clearly very sensible! I didn’t know about the English games, but I had heard of the Kirkwall ‘Ba’ game, played on Christmas Day and New Year’s Day. There, the ‘Uppies’ have to try to touch the ball against a wall at one end of town, whereas the ‘Doonies’ have to try to get it into the sea at the other. Folk seem to enjoy an excuse for a bit of real rough and tumble!

    Liked by 1 person

    • Platypus Man · March 5, 2020

      Orkney is one of my favourite places, but not at Christmas / New Year, so although I’ve heard of the Ba I’ve never witnessed it. Intriguing, isn’t it, that the game found its way to Orkney? Or perhaps it originated in the Scottish Isles and found its way south. I need to do some more research!

      Liked by 1 person

      • Ann Mackay · March 5, 2020

        I’ve never been over to Orkney in winter – that would be asking for seasickness! (I was brought up on the nearest bit of mainland – Caithness.) So I have only heard about it. Apparently it’s at least 300 years old but the origins are unknown.

        Liked by 1 person

      • Platypus Man · March 5, 2020

        Ah, interesting. The fact that terminology is similar (“Uppies” and “Downies” or equivalent) suggests a common origin, but if it’s been around in Orkney 300 years it could well pre-date the Act of Union. The mystery deepens.
        Caithness, eh? Nice part of the world, though not I suspect in winter!

        Liked by 1 person

      • Ann Mackay · March 5, 2020

        I wonder if this kind of game was played all over the country once? We may just be seeing a few remnants now.
        Caithness was a good place to be brought up but I’m very happy to be in much warmer and more garden(er)-friendly climes now! 🙂

        Liked by 1 person

      • Platypus Man · March 5, 2020

        It was certainly played more widely in England, but I don’t know about Scotland. If it spread north from England to Orkney it’s difficult to believe there weren’t intermediary sites in Scotland where it was also played.

        Liked by 1 person

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s