The Bard of Hexham
Ray Hudson
There are football commentators, and then there’s Ray Hudson—a man whose words weave through the beautiful game like a Messi dribble, leaving defenders (and listeners) in a daze. If the Pulitzer Prize ever had a category for spontaneous, poetic, soul-shaking sports commentary, Hudson would already have a shelf full of them.
I remember Hudson’s commentary in 2017 while watching Bein TV’s coverage of Barcelona away to Sevilla, a game played in the pouring rain. After Messi scorched in a half-volley from the edge of the box, Hudson screamed, then roared: “Whenever you need a fireman Messi’s the man to call…astonishing hit…the placement is emphatic…the power…1.21 gigawatts!”
I found myself giggling like a schoolboy. I called Hudson the crazy Geordie commentator or the Magisterial Messi Man back in 2013, before I knew who he was.
Ray Hudson’s accent is a glorious contradiction—a fusion of Geordie grit and American razzmatazz. Born in Hexham on the south bank of the River Tyne, he carries the unmistakable lilt of the North East (Geordie!), a region known for “why aye mans,” and producing voices as rough and unpolished as the North Sea. But decades spent in the U.S. have peppered his speech with an almost theatrical American inflection. He now sounds like a football bard narrating a Hollywood epic.
When Neymar pulled off an outrageous dribble for Barcelona, Hudson erupted: "Like smoke through a keyhole! He gets out of impossible situations like Houdini!" His voice—speakers corner street poet, carnival barker, and Shakespearean tragedian—shouldn’t work, but it does. He’s an excitable Gateshead uncle hollering about “magisterial” magic. It’s football commentary as performance art, and Hudson delivers it with every fiber of his being. I’ve never been more excited watching a game when he’s at the mic.
A few weeks ago I watched the champions league derby game between Athletico Madrid and Real with Ray commentating. My pal was watching on a Spanish channel so I texted him the following to share my pure delight listening to the Magisterial Messi Man:
“He was on it quicker than any dog to its dish.”
“This one should be hung in the Louvre as an incredible piece of defending.”
“It’s precariously balanced like a one legged man in a hammock!”
It’s no secret that Ray loved watching Messi at Barca, so here’s some of my personal favorites of his while commentating on the GOAT:
“Again, the medicine man arrives and sinks his flaming spear into the hearts of Real Madrid…....Messi, born in the crossfire hurricane and he is Jumping Jack Flash.”
“Messi, you could drop a tarantula into his shorts and he’ll still be cool.”
"He gets his angles better than isosceles again."
"Better balanced than a big Greek belly dancer."
“Defenders try to follow him on Facebook and he comes out on Twitter, that's how evasive he is."
“Messi invents passing lanes, he doesn't look for them.”
“Arrives like a witch on a broomstick and produces the hocus pocus in front of goal.”
"They tell me that all men are equal in God’s eyes, this guy makes you seriously think about those words."
His comparisons are beautiful and ridiculous, his metaphors absurdly brilliant. Who else would describe a pass as “smoother than a Zamboni on ice” or declare that a goal was “so good it should be hung in the Louvre”? He’s not just narrating a game; he’s painting it, embellishing it, elevating it to mythological proportions.
Just imagine listening to Gary Neville instead of Ray Hudson—it’s like some evil genius invented death by football commentary. Hudson’s magic lies in his ability to capture the pure feeling of football. He doesn’t analyze data and schematics from a wooden seat; he celebrates from the trenches. When he gasps, groans, or bellows in delight, you feel it in your bones. His voice rises and falls like a great Shakespearean actor delivering a soliloquy, except his subject isn’t Hamlet—it’s a last-minute winner in El Clássico.
Journalists win Pulitzers for their ability to capture the essence of a moment, to translate emotion and history into words that resonate beyond their time. Ray Hudson does this in real time, with no script, no edits, just pure footy passion.
Football deserves its poets, and Ray Hudson is its bard. So, Pulitzer committee, if you’re reading—make some space on that winners’ list for the man who made football sound like poetry.
