This season, Prostate Cancer UK is the Official Charity Partner of The Football League. In honour of Movember – in which we are encouraging men to grow a moustache to raise funds and awareness for prostate cancer programmes – we asked football writer Iain Macintosh to select his all-time Moustachioed Legends XI.

Register to take part in Movember – and read on for Iain's magnificent men with moustaches...

Flashes of brilliance: Bruce's Mo was reminiscent of his goalkeeping. Photos courtesy of Action Images

 

Goalkeeper

“Look at me!” trilled Bruce Grobbelaar’s unkempt moustache when it arrived in England. “I’m the most fun you’ve never had!” And, by thunder, it was as good as its word. But look a little closer; look again at the calculated chaos, the implied refusal to play by the rules. Oh, this tash is troubled. It has been both hunter and hunted. It begs you not to get too close – for someone will get hurt.

Defence

Sure, Gary Neville’s moustache wasn’t luxuriant, but you had to admire its determination. This was a Mo that made the most of what God gave it, constantly trying to improve in the face of widespread scorn and mockery. Sure, its owner has given up on it now, but the story doesn’t end there. With that same determination, it’s now forging another high-profile career as a toupee for a prematurely balding mouse.

Why does uniform precision sometimes hint at hidden flamboyance? With the authority of a hard-bitten drill sergeant, Francis Benali never allowed even a single hair of this master-Mo to stand out of place. And yet there was something so deliciously Freddie Mercurial here that you wonder if, underneath the red and white stripes of Southampton, he was actually wearing some quite fabulous lingerie.

Like the garrulous party-goer who still holds court in your kitchen at 5am, urging you to open that bottle of Johnny Walker Blue Label you’ve been saving, Mark Lawrenson’s moustache never knew when it was time to call a taxi and go home. Oh sure, it kicked off its brogues and danced with all the girls on your carpet, but that was hours ago. The sun’s up, man. Get out.

Look at the precision. Look at the way it sits so deep, so perfectly on the lip as if it were carved by Michelangelo himself. With this glorious moustache, Chris Kamara makes no pagan declaration of fertility; he issues no clarion call to war. This is modernity, this is style, this is vorsprung durch technik. This is a moustashe that says one thing: “Ladies. Let’s take this party back to my place.”

Midfield

Graeme Souness didn’t carry a moustache – he carried a warning. In a voice that dripped with malice, this uncompromising tash growled: “Leave me. Leave me here at the bar to drink with my demons. You want no part of my unholy burden. Leave me, or I will break you.” And yet there were those who did not heed the warning. You can recognise them by the way they twitch at the smell of dubbin.

This is raw, this is primal, this is John Wark. This is a moustache that says: “Sure, I’ll stick to the plan, I’ll play the short-passing game, but let me tell you something. If the lights go out and the walls come tumbling down, I am NOT beyond stripping off, pouring a bucket of woad over my head and setting fire to an entire village.”

“What are you looking at?” barks Jimmy Case’s moustache. “Nothing,” you whimper. “Nothing at all.” There is a long silence. Outside, a suddenly spooked horse whinnies in fear. “Nothing?” says Jimmy Case’s moustache carefully. “So I’m nothing, am I?” You don’t like the way it phrased the question. You don’t like the way it’s bristling at you. All of a sudden, you feel very alone.

Attack

At its peak in the 1970s, Frank Worthington boasted a moustache so sexy that Mary Whitehouse tried to have it banned. This moustache was so dangerous, it could have been used as a psychological weapon of war, but Frank was adamant that it should only ever be used for good. These days, it’s thinner and more wizened, but never doubt its dormant power. Perhaps it knew your mother. Perhaps it would like to get to know your girlfriend…

Never have man and moustache been as well matched as Ian Rush and that deft, dark tuft that lived under his nose for nearly 20 years. This was no bushy blunderbuss; this was arch and deliberate, concise but ruthlessly efficient. For a centre-back, the appearance of that tash in your peripheral vision said just one thing. Danger is here, and he’s playing off your shoulder.

Ah, the indefinable multiplier effect of the moustache. For some, a tash adds creeping menace, for others it opens the floodgates to a torrent of raw sexuality. For Mick Quinn, it brought nothing but peace, love and understanding. Look at him. He looks like a chubby village bobby, turning a blind eye to the licencing laws in exchange for two pints of Old Futtock and a pickled egg. Mind how you go, son.

For more of our Movember specials, check out The top nine father-and-son duos.

How you can get involved

Prostate cancer affects one in nine men in the UK – that means a man is diagnosed every 15 minutes.  Each year the Movember Foundation encourages men to grow moustaches during November and, in the process, raises considerable amounts of money for charity.

As Prostate Cancer UK is the official charity partner of the Football League, we want to make this football’s most successful contribution to Movember ever.

We’ve created a team for each of the 72 Football League clubs on the Movember website, so when you register you can start to grow a Mo on behalf of the team you support. Here’s how:

1.      Register at movember.com
2.      Join your club’s team using the search bar on the site
3.      Ask your friends and family to take part too
4.      Get growing your moustache from 1 November
5.      Encourage your friends and family to support your efforts by donating money.

Best of luck!