Stinking Up Sky Sports

I don¹t normally find myself standing outside pubs waiting for them to open,
honest. There was that one time at the White Lion in Rotherham with Jenny,
but that was a few years ago, and... Well, the Belle Vue in Wycombe is only
just opening its doors at two minutes past its scheduled opening time of
five, and there was a couple already waiting when Ted and I got here.
When Sky moved our game at Wycombe to a Monday night for reasons known only
to them, Ted decided he would join the London Millers, if only for the
drinking. Mind you, our numbers certainly need swelling. My brother joins
us, suited and booted having conveniently arranged a meeting in London for
mid-afternoon, though he¹s got a change of clothes with him so as not to
turn up at a match in something he¹s never worn before. (Told you we¹re a
superstitious family.) In due course, Tim and Clarkey arrive, and that¹s it.
Robert drives us up to the ground, having discovered last season that the
usual £3 parking charge is waived if you have a full complement of
passengers. When asked if he has a car full, he replies, ŒYes, and they
don¹t even like football. I¹ve only brought them so I can park for nothing.¹
Fortunately, it gets a laugh.
Actually, the stewards at Wycombe are among the most friendly and helpful in
the division, which is probably why the club is always in the running for
the Football League Community Club award. Last time, they pointed us in the
direction of the best of the food vans around the ground, Lindy¹s, so we
head there again. Sadly, they¹re not doing their hot pork breadcakes
tonight, but they have pretty decent burgers instead, which are some
consolation.
Inside, we set up the flag, Clarkey having ascertained the spot where it¹s
most likely to be picked up by the Sky cameras. No doubt he¹s thinking about
the South Norwood Gentlmen¹s Rambling Association and other London Millers
watching the game either at home or in a pub. That¹s something I really
don¹t enjoy, even though I watched the Johnstone¹s Paint Trophy game against
Leeds on Sky. It sounds strange, but when you¹re at a match, you somehow
feel as though your presence will influence events. You can shout, you can
encourage your team. If you try to do the same at home, you end up, like I
once did, watching us play Nottingham Forest and yelling, 'Who¹s picking up
Louis-Jean?¹ at the screen as Forest mounted an attack. You can get taken
away for less...
Clarkey, for one, is certainly determined to shout and make his influence
felt tonight. He barely stops making a noise throughout the match. 'You can
stick your minus points up your arse,¹ the Rotherham fans inform the FA as
the game kicks off. Wycombe, as per the other night, don¹t do much singing,
but the drummer strikes up. Tim and Clarkey launch into a chorus of, 'I hear
the sound of distant bums,¹ followed by such retro hoolie classics as, 'I
Was Born Under The Railway End¹ and 'Rotherham Boot Boys¹. 1973 called; it
wants its chants back...
On the pitch, it soon becomes obvious that we¹ve come not to lose. It
doesn¹t make for scintillating viewing, either in the ground or at home.
Chris, one of our Manchester-based London Millers, later comments that he¹s
never been so tense and yet bored at the same time. Ted, who¹s not bothered
about the outcome one way or the other, is maintaining an air of festering
indifference. Quite early on, Wycombe appeal for a penalty, when Matty
Phillips goes over Mark Joseph¹s outstretched leg. We¹re down the other end
from the incident, but it appears as though he¹s looking for the decision,
and the ref waves it away. Ted, who¹s the arbiter on these matters,
naturally, reckons the ref has got it right. As that turns out to be the
only controversial incident in the whole game, Sky apparently show it again
and again and again...
At half time, a couple of Rotherham fans dance around behind the goal, one
in a Peter Beagrie mask, the other in a Chris Kamara one. The things people
will do to get on TV.
My fears have proved groundless. I should have trusted my horoscope in this morning's Express, in which Justin Toper told me I 'won't be wandering forlornly'. Wycombe haven¹t really improved since Tuesday. They do more of the attacking, but then they¹re the team at home. We manage to repel everything they throw at us, Dale Tonge making one vital
block, but we¹re not creating a great deal.
With about 15 minutes to go, Robins makes a change, taking off Thomas and
bringing on Drewe Broughton. Though Broughton immediately starts making his
trademark nuisance of himself, and almost scores with a header, Clarkey is
doing his nut. 'Why haven¹t we gone three up front? Where¹s the flair?
Robins, this is poor!¹ He¹ll sleep well tonight, bless him.
The final whistle puts us all out of our misery, and we gather up the flag
and dash for the bus to the station. Typically, all the traffic which has
parked on the approach to the ground is allowed to leave first and Tim,
who¹s supposed to be meeting a friend in a pub near the station, is
distinctly agitated ­ and the last thing anyone wants is an agitated Tim.
Though Robert¹s not faring any better; I get a text at ten to say he¹s still
waiting in the carpark. When we finally get to the station, there¹s a
fifty-minute wait for the next train, so Ted, Clarkey, Wycombe Paul and I go
to the Belle Vue, where Ted gets to tart a sweet, curly-haired dog by the
name of Duffy.
We finally get back to London about ten to midnight, the train having
stopped at every piddly station between High Wycombe and London (apologies
to Denham Golf Club if you¹re not actually piddly). People waiting for a
train on the Hammersmith and City platforms at Baker Street might be a bit
alarmed to see Ted and I dance like maniacs when we realise a Barking train
is pulling in immediately. They don¹t realise it¹s probably the most
satisfying result of the night...