In west London, Subbuteo is alive and flicking

London Subbuteo Club — The tabletop football game sees players imitate vintage teams with tactics and tiny painted replica kits. Ryan Loftus takes a trip to Fulham to meet a dedicated community and witness a titanic Brazil vs Coventry City showdown.

If football is a religion, then it’s hard to say exactly what Subbuteo represents. I’m heading to find out on a rainy Tuesday evening, trying to imagine a second part to that sentence. I can’t, and it annoys me. This common case of brain fog washes away when I hit La Pizzica Italian restaurant in Fulham, London, the home of the London Subbuteo Club. 

For context: Subbuteo is a finger-flicking tabletop football game invented by Peter Adolph in 1946. He traded eggs at the time, legal in those days, before diversifying to great success, creating an opportunity for players to flick miniature plastic figures across a felt pitch to score goals and win games.

I’m aggressively early, and there’s nobody eating upstairs yet, so a friendly waiter takes me into the basement. It’s a nice gaff. The lights are bright, football plays in the background, and Gianluca Zuchelli, founder of the London Subbuteo Club, is busy setting up. When he takes a seat, nursing a cold half pint of Birra Moretti that makes me rethink my non-drinking intentions, we get into it. 

“My team is Brazil, and my backup team is Fulham, from the 1975-76 season.” He says, proudly picking out miniature footballer figures and arranging them in front of me for some photos (I’m instantly hooked on account of my love for tiny things).

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“It’s a mixture of chess, snooker, and football,” Gianluca says, schooling me on my flicking technique. He braces his fingers to show me the appropriate style… “You can’t do *this* (using all of his fingers), it’s forbidden. You have to do it neat, proper, clean (flicking one finger),” demonstrating the discipline and care that underpin even a casual match. 

The aim of the game is to score goals and defend your own. Two players, 11 figures, with a turn-based system. You flick your miniatures, not push, into the ball so they kick it, and you want to put that ball in their net without touching one of their miniatures. It’s hard. If you’re in possession, the ball can’t touch one of their figures; if it does, they get possession back. Every time you get a flick, your opponent gets one too, meaning they can cleverly put themselves between you and the ball, so you can’t reach it with the figure you’re attacking with. Nuanced stuff. 

“There’s a song about Subbuteo… you can find it on YouTube,” Gianluca tells me, boasting a big, labrador-like grin. It’s by HALF MAN HALF BISCUIT, and it’s called ‘All I Want For Christmas Is A Dukla Prague Away Kit’. Listening later, some of the lyrics stand out…

“So he’d send his doting mother up the stairs with the stepladders

To get the Subbuteo out of the loft

He had all the accessories required for that big match atmosphere

The crowd and the dugout and the floodlights too

You'd always get palmed off with a headless centre forward

And a goalkeeper with no arms and a face like his.”

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There’s a low-key joy to this. Some DIY world-building goodness: the big-game atmosphere, the accessories. Subbuteo isn’t just a hobby or place to socialise, it’s a space to regress (in a nice way). 

Globally, only 0.012% of players reach the highest levels of professional football, lofty heights that are other-worldly to the majority of young kids who grow up idolising the game. Here, though, all bets are off. Subbuteo levels the playing field, giving lovers of the game divine managerial, player, and director roles. Players craft tactics, imitate legendary teams (this week: Brazil, AC Milan, Tottenham, Fulham… and Coventry), and repaint miniatures down to the tiniest detail, turning plastic figurines into historical reenactments of famous squads.

This is something Gianluca feels strongly about: “The difference between these and electronic games is that you actually play the style you want. You are constantly developing your sense of imagination.” Later, I find an old TEDx talk from Gianluca, where he explains, “The biggest gift you can give yourself, and those around you, is doing that thing that would have made you happy when you were 13 years old. And in your imagination, look back at that child and tell him: we have done it! I never betrayed you; your dreams are mine, and you are still with me.” 

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“The main joy is being here, playing, and sharing time with people,” he tells me on the night. There’s a sense of continuity and craft, from the original AstroTurf pitches of the 1970s to 3D-printed goals, as players balance nostalgia and innovation. “The social aspect is massive. You come here and make friends. It’s relaxed, you don’t have to talk about work,” he continues. Regulars come from all walks of life, supporting different clubs, and yet the conversation flows easily over the table: “We may enjoy different teams, but we can talk football without it getting too intense.” 

It’s not all half pints and handshakes, though; there’s a surprising seriousness. Before games, players prepare their figurine bases with a cloth and some special polish, a tactile meditation that transforms the occasion into something theatrical. “There is a ritual. The polishing ritual,” someone notes, as if every swipe holds the potential to shift the game. The standard is high. Six of the club’s members even represented England at the Subbuteo World Cup in Tunbridge Wells, which featured 27 nations, 300 competitors, and a Weetabix sponsorship in the run-up to the event.

I watch a chuffed Gianluca almost levitate around the room, hovering around the tables, giving much-appreciated advice. I lock in to watch a game he plays: two grown men scrambling around a tiny football pitch, broad smiles and the odd “Fuck!” There’s something child-like in here, big kids flexing their imagination, running around in their favourite footballer’s shoes, the ones they wanted to be in when they were young. I’m daydreaming, before…

“Ryan! You’ll want a picture of this! Direct free kick. Shooting distance.” I try to get into position but can barely catch Gianluca’s vicious flick into the bottom corner. He sends me a knowing look as if to say, “That was a good one.” I wish I caught it on camera. 

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I can’t stay the full night because of a looming 90 minute train back to East London, so I head upstairs to get a pasta. Pappardelle with sausage and mushrooms. The others file in one by one, like hungry boys ready for a meal, which reminds me of something Gianluca said earlier in the night: “If you play together and familiarise, all the barriers go down. You get back to being a teenager, you don’t have to overthink.” 

So, when you’re inside on a rainy Tuesday night, wondering about the state of the world, just know that underneath a West London Italian restaurant, die-hard Subbuteo fans are flicking, dipping, and thriving in the imaginary world of Brazil vs. Coventry. 

Ryan Loftus is a freelance journalist and writer. Visit his website Sarsen Studio.

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