Royal Shrovetide Football: Ashbourne locals mark pancake day with ritualistic mayhem

ASHBOURNE, England -- It's the regularity and the creativity of the violence that makes a standout moment hard to pick.

Was it the man who fell through the front window of an art gallery, tearing his hands as well as a canvas painting worth more than £1,000? Was it his teammate who somehow climbed through the canopy of a holly tree before launching himself down upon the melee below? Was it the three rugby players bouncing off a wild-eyed competitor as he sprinted through a garden and leapt clean over a brick wall? All shocking scenes but relatively par for the course in perhaps the most lawless sporting event in the UK.

Where most households celebrate Shrove Tuesday with pancakes, the English market town of Ashbourne marks it, and the succeeding Ash Wednesday, with a chaotic, ancient ball game known as Royal Shrovetide Football. The much-loved annual event splits the town in two; Up'ards (those born north of Henmore Brook) compete against Down'ards (those born south of the river that meanders through Ashbourne) to physically manoeuvre a ball towards one of two goals located three miles apart.

Rules: the game cannot enter churchyards or cemeteries, the ball cannot be hidden in motorised vehicles or bags, murder remains illegal, unnecessary violence is frowned upon (not prohibited). That's about it.

- What is Royal Shrovetide Football? Dates, rules, history, teams, winners, more

Recognised as a form of 'medieval' or 'mob' football, Ashbourne is chief among a select few locations in England still playing the Shrovetide game. Competed in Derbyshire since at least 1667 (two World Wars could not stop it, only outbreaks of Foot-and-mouth disease in 1968 and 2001 and COVID-19 20 years later have done), the day's play begins when a respected local, or visiting dignitary, throws the ball from a purpose-built stone plinth down to the swirling mass of bodies below.

On Tuesday, that honour was awarded to Up'ard Sir Andrew Walker-Okeover who followed in the footsteps of two Kings and Brian Clough in 'turning up' the ball. "Only legends of the game tend to really be given that honour; you earn the right to turn up the ball... It was surreal, it was almost like getting a call from the England manager -- like being called up to represent your country," Walker-Okeover told the local press.

Preparations had begun some hours before with local businesses boarding up their premises and the townsfolk mingling in the cobbled streets, beer in hand. The seasoned competitors among them were impossible to miss -- their shoes taped onto their legs via the ankle in the style of a makeshift Roman sandal. Mobile phones were secured in zip-lock plastic bags for fear of the game entering the river (as it eventually did).

After the crowds had gathered in the scenic surroundings of a town-centre car park where the starting plinth is located, Walker-Okeover's throw prompted the first 'hug' of the day. Despite its name, a friendly embrace this is not; hundreds of people converge on the delicately hand-painted ball, each of them clawing and kicking their way towards it with the scrum growing ever larger until it looks like the world's most violent colony of emperor penguins.

The hug is a truly unique sporting spectacle. Often a confused and immobile mass that is static for up to half an hour at a time, a competitor will occasionally work the ball free through a combination of strength and sheer will, sending it squirting out of the crush like a bar of soap, bouncing off clawing hands until it is lost again among the writhing sea of pure testosterone.

The hug seems to have its own life force, continuously shape-shifting before breaking down in a fraction of a second as the ball is freed before forming again close by. It even appears to breathe for itself; such is the steam rising from its core, generated by the body heat of dozens of struggling competitors.

Spend some time watching the hug, though, and you will appreciate its subtleties. There are those who do the grunt work, forcing an unbearable degree of pressure in the centre, aiming to work the ball free. There are decoy runners and fake ball throwers who try to trick opposition players away and there are also those who dutifully patrol the hug's edges, hoping to latch upon the ball when it is loosed and sprint as far as they can towards their team's goal before being enveloped once more.

It's the reason why the ball and the crowds travel through Ashbourne's streets and the surrounding fields on its path to goal. There's very few areas designated as off limits, despite the protests of wardens who try to enact some measure of safety.

"It's alright as long as people listen to us," Belinda, a veteran warden, tells ESPN as a hug forms outside the front door of a block of flats and snaps off the downpipe of the building's guttering. "The people living here are used to the damage, they knew what they were signing up for when they moved to the area. Everyone in Ashbourne takes the time off work and it's half-term so it's a great family day out."

Our conversation is cut short as Belinda intervenes to reason with a man who has removed a metal washing line pole and is wielding it above his head.

All of a sudden, the ball is freed and crowds and players alike sprint to follow the ball that has moved to Park Avenue a few hundred yards away. The hours of action that follows sees the hug move along Ashbourne's historic high street, into and out of the river, the yard of a local butcher and back to where it started in the car park on four separate occasions before a late Up'ard goal before 10 p.m. sees them take a 1-0 lead into Ash Wednesday's action.

What, though, does it all mean?

"It used to be better when there weren't so many outsiders coming in to play," a Down'ard from the local rugby club tells ESPN. "It used to be a more enjoyable game but there's so many people now that the ball gets stuck in the centre of town.

"It's a local game for local people. It's part of our history.

"It used to be a better game when the pub filled up when it got dark but now everyone drinks cans. It gets moving more on Wednesday.

"Still great fun, though."