Today is the day we are actually going to see some football – at least that’s what Jenny, Steve Ducker and I reckon as we congregate at Kings Cross. Mind you, Jenny saw some on Tuesday, but the less said about that the better. Ted has kept very quiet about Darlo beating us, but he knows better, as these things have a nasty way of coming back and biting you on the bum.
The train is surprisingly quiet, but then Leeds are in London today, playing Spurs in the evening FA Cup kick-off. While we wait for Clarkey to wander down the train to join us, we fill Steve in on last week’s unplanned pub crawl. Steve knows Preston from his university days, so he tries to guess the eight pubs we visited, getting most of them eventually – though in his day (and probably still now), there were several others we could easily have included.
Once in Sheffield, we nip in to the Tap at the station, where we find the Burtons, Martin idly finishing the Independent crossword (and a pint). Phil has let us know he’s running a little late, so we give him time to arrive and work his way through a beer. There are four Thornbridge and four Brew Dog beers on draught today, the latter not impressing Ted when I let him know – I’m sure he’s ranted elsewhere about the ‘brewing is the new rock ‘n’ roll’ philosophy and how much it gets up his nose.
We head out to Shalesmoor. On the tram, the conductor bonds with us. For some reason, he’s got it in his head that we’re going to ditch Steve somewhere along the journey – it must be a slow day on the trams! The Fat Cat is unusually busy, even accounting for the fact we’re slightly later than usual – though a nice chap who’s on his last pint of the session gives up his table for us. The food, however, is up to its excellent standards. The inclusion of apple and raisins in the coleslaw leads me to suspect they may have a new chef, but apparently they just didn’t have enough cabbage, so they’re improvising. In which case, they should run out more often...
When Jenny and I go to catch the tram, it soon becomes apparent there’s a backlog in the system. One comes in, heading towards Hillsborough and is held until one immediately behind can disgorge its passengers and turn round. When we get on this latter tram, we discover it’s not hordes of Peterborough fans causing the problem, but some protest march through Sheffield. It must be a hefty protest, as I find out later it delayed Ted’s mate Colin on his way from Nottingham to Crewe.
There are more cameramen than usual buzzing around the DVS, as we’re going to be one of the featured games on the Beeb’s new regional Late Kick-off show. Having secured the flag next to a Maltby Millers one we’ve not seen before, we’re on our way to our seats when Jenny bumps into a friend of hers, Julie, who she always used to see in the Old White Lion near Millmoor. Julie is recently retired, and they discuss the joys of no longer having to work for a living – rub it in, why don’t you, ladies?
Taking my seat, I spot Mr Scouts With Wolves for what must be the third time this season, though I’ve still no idea if he’s watching anyone in particular. Also sitting in the scouting/guests/hangers-on section is Kevin Pressman. He’s now the goalkeeping coach for Scunny, who aren’t playing till tomorrow, but he’s best known by us for his time at Wednesday, where he was surprisingly agile despite being – how shall we put this delicately? - rather well-upholstered. Toddy always claimed he carried a tray of pies with him at all times, even while actually in goal, which once led Phil to set the following question: ‘If a pie costs £1.25 (that’s how much they are in our local chippy) how many pies has Pressman actually eaten to get the club into debt to the tune of 16 million quid?’ Kevin Pressman Pie Maths out of the way, we can get on with enjoying the game – perhaps.
Since we last played Grimsby at home, Mike Newell has come and gone (most likely karma for the way he treated ex-Roth keepers Phil Barnes and the very lovely Monty), but their form hasn’t improved. They haven’t won in something like seventeen games, and given our record against teams who are doing appallingly (Darlo, I’m pointing in your direction), this could all go horribly wrong for us. However, it becomes apparent within a few minutes this isn’t going to be the case.
We’ve got two new players in the sixteen, both on loan from Blackburn. Gavin Gunning is starting at left-back, with Ronnie obviously feeling he needs someone tall in that position, and Marcus Marshall, who we didn’t actually realise we’d signed, is on the bench. Grimsby have very little to offer, and when Micky Cummins slides the ball through to Alf, he has a simple finish past Nick Colgan.
We increase the lead shortly before half time, when Colgan saves Cummins’ header from a corner and Alf, in true poaching style, knocks in the rebound. One of the Grimsby defenders reckons he’s been fouled, but the goal stands. With Grimsby’s only real chance having been a shot which Don saved well with his legs, everything feels very positive and comfortable. My dad even hears the younger of the two boys in front of us encouraging Warrington to ‘have a run with it’, which amuses him greatly - little one, I have taught you well...
Our special guest at half-time is Dave Titterton, who’s just been crowned Mr Universe. Yes, the muscliest, oiliest, most orange man in the world is from Rotherham. It makes you feel proud, but not as proud as when Miller Bear, to the accompaniment of the Wheels Cha-cha, goes through his muscleman posing routine.
The second half is rather uneventful. Grimsby try to step things up a bit as they’re kicking towards the goal on the smoother side of the pitch. They bring on Adam Proudlock for the spectacularly named Jean-Paul Akpa Akpro – a move always guaranteed to rile the Rotherham fans, who knew him and didn’t like him much when he played for Wednesday. When the Mariners string four or five passes together, their fans start shouting ‘Olé! – the only time I’ve ever heard it done ironically. We still look the more likely to score again, though. Tom Pope, who desperately needs a goal, and deserves one based on today’s performance, shoots wide with only the keeper to beat, then Colgan makes a save Kevin Pressman would have been proud of to deny Alf his hat-trick.
In stoppage time, Grimsby score, their sub Wes Fletcher slotting home, though Don looks as though he should really have got a hand to it. If there’d been more than ninety seconds to go, it might have set up a tense finish, but in truth this has been a comfortable victory. New boy Gunning has looked impressive and I'm sure Ronnie, watching from the director's box for once, is pleased with how the team have got Tuesday night out of their system.
Jenny is staying over for the rearranged game against Cheaterfield, so Steve, Clarkey and I take the tram back to Meadowhall, guiding a couple of lost Grimsby fans to Attercliffe station on the way (we’re all heart!). In Donny, we have a swift one in the Corner Pin, spotting our chum Mr Thorne Brewery, or Peter as we now know him. I’m able to report back to him that his stout has been going down well in the Quaker House in Darlo.
The train to Kings Cross is full of Peterborough fans, so Clarkey nips into first class (to catch forty winks, most likely). Steve and I find ourselves sitting next to a Luton fan who’s been up to Gateshead. He checks their crowd in the Green ’Un. It’s 1200, approximately 900 of whom were from Luton, or so he reckons. At the table opposite, two women are discussing the eye surgery one of them has just had. Steve starts looking a bit queasy at the mention of retinas, so we distract ourselves with our favourite quotes from Harry Pearson’s ‘The Far Corner’, the funniest ever book about football. I’m glad I’m not the only one who can recite chunks from it.
Ted has called to let me know he’s drinking with his Wycombe chum, Paul the photographer, in the Betjeman, so once in London Clarkey and I join him for couple of pints (or coffees, in my case). They have Sky Sports News on, with the sound down and the predictive text-style subtitles on, which enables us to see the Rotherham goals from this afternoon being scored by ‘Adam Low Fonda’. Misprint or not, they still look pretty good to me...
Thursday 28 January 2010
Friday 22 January 2010
Mission Aborted Part – Oh, This Is Getting Silly
No more snow, no more pitch inspections – things are looking positive as I walk down the Euston Road to meet Jenny, Chris Turner and Clarkey. And when I’m crossing the road outside the inexplicably popular Rocket on Chalton Street and a van belonging to Brogan’s Scaffolding goes past, I know it’s an omen.
We’re on the train to Preston, where the plan is to have a drink or two before carrying on to Accrington in time for kick-off. The journey up is fairly uneventful: QPR are at Blackpool today, and they’re travelling in numbers, but most of their fans seem to be in other carriages. We just have four in the seats behind us who are starting the day off with a nice glass of wine. West London is soooo sophisticated. As for South London, or the part of it which is Clarkey’s manor, it’s not so pleasant: he regales us with the story of how he offered assistance to a lad who was mugged outside his house the other night. Truly, he is a legend.
Once at Preston, we meet Jackie, a friend of Clarkey’s who he’s known since university and who now lives in Southport. She joined us for a drink in Manchester a few years ago, the day we played Man City – which, if I ever get round to doing London Millers Gold on this blog, will be recounted in loving detail, it truly being one of our most unforgettable trips...
Between Chris, Clarkey and Jenny we’ve racked up a decent list of pubs to visit, and we’re just deciding which should be the first as Jenny rings Accrington to check the game’s going ahead. To our utter disbelief, heavy overnight rain has left the pitch waterlogged and it’s off. Preston are away in Bristol today, so there’s only one thing for it – we’re going to have to spend the afternoon working our way through that list of pubs.
Our first port of call is the one furthest from the station, Ye Olde Blue Bell. It’s a Sam Smith’s pub, warm and welcoming, with a fire burning in the grate, and Chris, who’s getting the beers in, can’t believe he’s only being charged £1.23 a pint. If we weren’t only having one in each pub, we could happily have whiled away a couple of hours here.
Next is the Market Tavern. We walk past the Miller Arcade to get there, but obviously there’s no point taking note of omens now. Inside, the pub seems to have retained all its original Victorian features, with lots of mirrors, ironwork and brass plating all round the bar. Elvis is playing on the sound system, which makes Clarkey strangely nostalgic, even though his tastes are rooted in punk.
By now, people are starting to get peckish, so we decide to see whether the next pub on our route, the Black Horse, has food on or will let you take your own in (as the Market Tavern does). If not, we’ll investigate the chip shop in the market square. At least that’s the plan, until we go past William’s butchers. They claim to sell what’s the best pork pie in town, and at 69p, no one can resist except me – I get a couple of meat and potato pies to take home to Ted, even though he will, inevitably, compare them to the Taylor’s pies he gets from Darlo). Next door is Bamber’s cheese shop which, as you know, gets me where I’m living. It’s not quite up to the magnificence of Paxton and Whitfield in Bath, where their extensive cheese selection is sold and maintained by some very cute, very posh boys, but the mild and crumbly Lancashire is fantastic.
The Black Horse is my favourite out of the pubs we visit today. It’s a Robinson’s pub, another one with an authentic interior, featuring lots of little rooms off the main bar. It also has the only toilets I’ve ever been in where the mirrors are on the backs of the toilet doors – strange, but useful. Jackie gets a selection of crisps to keep us going, and for some reason we get on to the subject of Yorkshire pudding and the traditional way of eating it (before the main course, with lots of gravy, as a way of filling you up so you didn’t need as much meat). It turns out I’m not quite as weird as I thought I was, as I’m not alone in my preference for having it smeared with golden syrup.
A short walk away, we find the Black Bull. This is apparently the top rated pub in the area, but though there’s a very good, well-kept beer selection, the place has been fitted out with a stupid number of big screens, all of which are currently showing the Stoke-Liverpool game. Our timing is perfect, as Stoke equalise just as we’re ordering. The result goes down very well with the viewing audience. A few people leave as the game ends, so we get a table without any problems. It’s decorated with beermats got up as £7 notes, advertising a new series of ‘Minder’. Clarkey makes sure to make off with a couple so he can throw them in the direction of Chris ‘O’Greedy’ O’Grady when he goes to our rescheduled game against Rochdale. This sets us reminiscing about O’Grady being forced to do laps of the pitch on his own after our sponsored game against Brentford the other season, when he’d refused to take a wage deferral and been dropped from the squad, and how Chris very nearly did laps with him, wearing the Perspex presentation box for the match ball on his head. It would have been worth the ban from the ground, honestly, Chris...
A very short walk up the road is the Dog and Partridge. It’s a nice enough pub, probably the quietest we’ve been in, and the beer is fine, but the area where we’re sitting has a distinctive aroma which the boys are convinced is cats’ pee. This enables me to bore on about our three-cat, eleven-pawed household for a while. Fortunately, Jackie’s a cat lover, too.
Pub number six is the New Britannia. It’s been modernised to an extent, with what looks like a freshly painted bar, but it’s still kept some of the old tiling on the floor. It’s almost empty, so we colonise the comfy sofas. There’s a TV in the other room, where the pool table is, as easy to ignore as the ones in the Black Bull were intrusive, and Chris and I pop over to get all the full time scores. Dagenham have just crept above us, but to say we haven’t played for over a month and we’re fourth in the league is oddly reassuring.
From the New Britannia, we go on to the Fox and Grapes. It’s quite a narrow little pub, but we find seats at the back. This is when things start getting silly. Chris notices snacks behind the bar called a Ploughman’s Lunch, which none of us have seen before but he remembers from the Moulder’s Rest in Rotherham. He decides to treat us to this culinary experience, which consists of two cream crackers, a Laughing Cow cream cheese triangle and some silverskin onions. That sound you hear is Jamie Oliver gnawing his own feet off in frustration... Clarkey attempts to show off by throwing an onion up in the air and catching it in his mouth. It takes him four or five goes before he actually manages it, by which time the rest of us are in hysterics. ‘Ah, the North,’ declares Clarkey, ‘it’s just like the South, but with bad haircuts.’ We really can’t take him anywhere.
Before we go to our final stop on the crawl, we make sure Jackie is safely on the bus back to Southport. Without realising it, we’ve got her to the bus stop five minutes before the last limited stop service of the night leaves. Once she’s on her way, we head for the Old Vic, opposite the station. At the front is a traditional bar, with a couple of TVs showing the Everton-Man City game, but we find a quiet area at the back. Although this seems to be generally regarded as somewhere to have a quick one before you get your train, the boys say their pints as are good as anything they’ve had today.
Our train is running five minutes late, which stretches to twenty as we’re is waiting for the arrival of a crew member who’s on a delayed train coming North. Again we have QPR supporters on the train and again only a handful are near us, but forget what I said earlier about West London sophisticates as the horde in the next carriage are obviously acting up seriously. Clarkey and Chris end up rubbing up against them on their way to the toilet, which is apparently fine in the case of the girl in the short, clingy dress, but it sounds like there’s smoking, mooning and general ASBO-worthy behaviour. God knows what they’d been like if they’d lost, rather than snatching a draw. We make unscheduled stops at Crewe and Stafford, though I have no idea whether this is to eject troublemakers. The bloke sitting opposite us is seriously hacked off by this, as he’s going to miss a connection, though he mellows a little when he finds out we’re not QPR fans. ‘Rotherham. You haven’t played since December 12th, have you?’ he says. Ah, how word gets round...
We take the opportunity to rank the pubs we’ve visited today in order of preference. To remind us of which was which, we have a one-word description for each, which sounds like a mnemonic for remembering the periodic table, or something: Cheap Elvis Rooms Screens Piss Sofas Onions Station. Totting up the votes (three points for first, two for second, one for third), the winner is Ye Old Blue Bell, with the Market Tavern second and the Black Horse third.
At Euston, the police are having a word with a few of the QPR fans. Clarkey and Chris are heading for the Victoria Line, while Jenny and I walk up to St Pancras. We’re all agreed it’s the best away trip we’ve ever had with no football involved. Let’s just hope there aren’t any more of them this season.
We’re on the train to Preston, where the plan is to have a drink or two before carrying on to Accrington in time for kick-off. The journey up is fairly uneventful: QPR are at Blackpool today, and they’re travelling in numbers, but most of their fans seem to be in other carriages. We just have four in the seats behind us who are starting the day off with a nice glass of wine. West London is soooo sophisticated. As for South London, or the part of it which is Clarkey’s manor, it’s not so pleasant: he regales us with the story of how he offered assistance to a lad who was mugged outside his house the other night. Truly, he is a legend.
Once at Preston, we meet Jackie, a friend of Clarkey’s who he’s known since university and who now lives in Southport. She joined us for a drink in Manchester a few years ago, the day we played Man City – which, if I ever get round to doing London Millers Gold on this blog, will be recounted in loving detail, it truly being one of our most unforgettable trips...
Between Chris, Clarkey and Jenny we’ve racked up a decent list of pubs to visit, and we’re just deciding which should be the first as Jenny rings Accrington to check the game’s going ahead. To our utter disbelief, heavy overnight rain has left the pitch waterlogged and it’s off. Preston are away in Bristol today, so there’s only one thing for it – we’re going to have to spend the afternoon working our way through that list of pubs.
Our first port of call is the one furthest from the station, Ye Olde Blue Bell. It’s a Sam Smith’s pub, warm and welcoming, with a fire burning in the grate, and Chris, who’s getting the beers in, can’t believe he’s only being charged £1.23 a pint. If we weren’t only having one in each pub, we could happily have whiled away a couple of hours here.
Next is the Market Tavern. We walk past the Miller Arcade to get there, but obviously there’s no point taking note of omens now. Inside, the pub seems to have retained all its original Victorian features, with lots of mirrors, ironwork and brass plating all round the bar. Elvis is playing on the sound system, which makes Clarkey strangely nostalgic, even though his tastes are rooted in punk.
By now, people are starting to get peckish, so we decide to see whether the next pub on our route, the Black Horse, has food on or will let you take your own in (as the Market Tavern does). If not, we’ll investigate the chip shop in the market square. At least that’s the plan, until we go past William’s butchers. They claim to sell what’s the best pork pie in town, and at 69p, no one can resist except me – I get a couple of meat and potato pies to take home to Ted, even though he will, inevitably, compare them to the Taylor’s pies he gets from Darlo). Next door is Bamber’s cheese shop which, as you know, gets me where I’m living. It’s not quite up to the magnificence of Paxton and Whitfield in Bath, where their extensive cheese selection is sold and maintained by some very cute, very posh boys, but the mild and crumbly Lancashire is fantastic.
The Black Horse is my favourite out of the pubs we visit today. It’s a Robinson’s pub, another one with an authentic interior, featuring lots of little rooms off the main bar. It also has the only toilets I’ve ever been in where the mirrors are on the backs of the toilet doors – strange, but useful. Jackie gets a selection of crisps to keep us going, and for some reason we get on to the subject of Yorkshire pudding and the traditional way of eating it (before the main course, with lots of gravy, as a way of filling you up so you didn’t need as much meat). It turns out I’m not quite as weird as I thought I was, as I’m not alone in my preference for having it smeared with golden syrup.
A short walk away, we find the Black Bull. This is apparently the top rated pub in the area, but though there’s a very good, well-kept beer selection, the place has been fitted out with a stupid number of big screens, all of which are currently showing the Stoke-Liverpool game. Our timing is perfect, as Stoke equalise just as we’re ordering. The result goes down very well with the viewing audience. A few people leave as the game ends, so we get a table without any problems. It’s decorated with beermats got up as £7 notes, advertising a new series of ‘Minder’. Clarkey makes sure to make off with a couple so he can throw them in the direction of Chris ‘O’Greedy’ O’Grady when he goes to our rescheduled game against Rochdale. This sets us reminiscing about O’Grady being forced to do laps of the pitch on his own after our sponsored game against Brentford the other season, when he’d refused to take a wage deferral and been dropped from the squad, and how Chris very nearly did laps with him, wearing the Perspex presentation box for the match ball on his head. It would have been worth the ban from the ground, honestly, Chris...
A very short walk up the road is the Dog and Partridge. It’s a nice enough pub, probably the quietest we’ve been in, and the beer is fine, but the area where we’re sitting has a distinctive aroma which the boys are convinced is cats’ pee. This enables me to bore on about our three-cat, eleven-pawed household for a while. Fortunately, Jackie’s a cat lover, too.
Pub number six is the New Britannia. It’s been modernised to an extent, with what looks like a freshly painted bar, but it’s still kept some of the old tiling on the floor. It’s almost empty, so we colonise the comfy sofas. There’s a TV in the other room, where the pool table is, as easy to ignore as the ones in the Black Bull were intrusive, and Chris and I pop over to get all the full time scores. Dagenham have just crept above us, but to say we haven’t played for over a month and we’re fourth in the league is oddly reassuring.
From the New Britannia, we go on to the Fox and Grapes. It’s quite a narrow little pub, but we find seats at the back. This is when things start getting silly. Chris notices snacks behind the bar called a Ploughman’s Lunch, which none of us have seen before but he remembers from the Moulder’s Rest in Rotherham. He decides to treat us to this culinary experience, which consists of two cream crackers, a Laughing Cow cream cheese triangle and some silverskin onions. That sound you hear is Jamie Oliver gnawing his own feet off in frustration... Clarkey attempts to show off by throwing an onion up in the air and catching it in his mouth. It takes him four or five goes before he actually manages it, by which time the rest of us are in hysterics. ‘Ah, the North,’ declares Clarkey, ‘it’s just like the South, but with bad haircuts.’ We really can’t take him anywhere.
Before we go to our final stop on the crawl, we make sure Jackie is safely on the bus back to Southport. Without realising it, we’ve got her to the bus stop five minutes before the last limited stop service of the night leaves. Once she’s on her way, we head for the Old Vic, opposite the station. At the front is a traditional bar, with a couple of TVs showing the Everton-Man City game, but we find a quiet area at the back. Although this seems to be generally regarded as somewhere to have a quick one before you get your train, the boys say their pints as are good as anything they’ve had today.
Our train is running five minutes late, which stretches to twenty as we’re is waiting for the arrival of a crew member who’s on a delayed train coming North. Again we have QPR supporters on the train and again only a handful are near us, but forget what I said earlier about West London sophisticates as the horde in the next carriage are obviously acting up seriously. Clarkey and Chris end up rubbing up against them on their way to the toilet, which is apparently fine in the case of the girl in the short, clingy dress, but it sounds like there’s smoking, mooning and general ASBO-worthy behaviour. God knows what they’d been like if they’d lost, rather than snatching a draw. We make unscheduled stops at Crewe and Stafford, though I have no idea whether this is to eject troublemakers. The bloke sitting opposite us is seriously hacked off by this, as he’s going to miss a connection, though he mellows a little when he finds out we’re not QPR fans. ‘Rotherham. You haven’t played since December 12th, have you?’ he says. Ah, how word gets round...
We take the opportunity to rank the pubs we’ve visited today in order of preference. To remind us of which was which, we have a one-word description for each, which sounds like a mnemonic for remembering the periodic table, or something: Cheap Elvis Rooms Screens Piss Sofas Onions Station. Totting up the votes (three points for first, two for second, one for third), the winner is Ye Old Blue Bell, with the Market Tavern second and the Black Horse third.
At Euston, the police are having a word with a few of the QPR fans. Clarkey and Chris are heading for the Victoria Line, while Jenny and I walk up to St Pancras. We’re all agreed it’s the best away trip we’ve ever had with no football involved. Let’s just hope there aren’t any more of them this season.
Confessions Of A Neutral Supporter Part Six
I hadn’t planned to go to yesterday’s postponed game at Rochdale (given that one of us might have been in the FA Cup today, if it hadn’t been for that pesky Luton), so I haven’t suffered another fruitless journey. To help us avoid football cold turkey, Ted is taking us to West Ham’s FA Cup tie against Arsenal. The game is live on ITV, which probably helps to explain the availability of tickets, even with prices having been reduced from extortionate to only slightly extortionate.
Outside the ground, we bump into Ted’s Arsenal-supporting compadre, Mark, who’s waiting for a friend to arrive with his ticket. They catch up on news and discuss all things space rock until my eyes glaze over, at which point Ted decides we perhaps ought to be getting inside.
The pre-match build-up music is almost preposterously pompous, Guns ’n Roses’ ‘Sweet Child Of Mine’ followed by smug Britain’s Got Talent string quartet Escala’s renditions of ‘Palladio’ (you know the one, it was used on an advert for dishwashing powder) and ‘Kashmir’. By this time, the hairs on the back of my neck are standing up, but that’s only because I’m shivering in the sub-zero temperatures.
We’ve got seats in the Bobby Moore Lower, although we don’t actually end up sitting in them. This part of the ground is where the hardcore Irons congregate, and they stand for the whole match. They also go through a repertoire of chants in the ninety minutes which aim the usual anti-Semitic jibes at Tottenham, declare Valon Behrami’s wife to be worthy of a spot of self-pleasuring and dismiss Frank Lampard as fat (and looking at the spare tyres of some of the men in the seats around me I can imagine their wives and girlfriends looking them up and down and saying, ‘Well, I wish you were as fat as him...’). Most impressively, particularly if, unlike us, you haven’t heard them do it before, they also sing ‘I’m Forever Blowing Bubbles’ to the tune of ‘Chitty Chitty Bang Bang’. I have no idea who first worked out it’s a perfect fit, but it is.
That said, there is discontent in the ranks. Alongside another of those knicker-material flags, a banner fastened to the edge of the stand proclaims ‘Sell the club, not the players’, and we find ourselves next to the angriest man in E13. As far as he’s concerned, Gianfranco Zola is manager simply because he’s a yes man, and they need to get rid of him and find someone who’ll stand up to the owners.
On the pitch at least, Mr Angry doesn’t seem to have too much to be angry about. They’re missing a few players through injury, including Carlton Cole and Scott Parker (or as he’s known in our house, Scotty Parkery), but so are Arsenal. Indeed, it isn’t quite as much of a reserve line-up as you’d expect from the Gunners, who clearly don’t view the FA Cup as much of a priority. First-choice keeper and man who looks like a cross between Basil Fawlty and the contents of a textile recycling bin, Manuel Almunia, may be missing, but the defence is pretty much their first choice and they have promising youngsters Aaron Ramsey and Jack Wilshere in midfield (though it must really be killing Wenger to have that English player in his line-up...). Arsenal make most of the running, and it seems to be a case of not if they’ll score but when, forcing a couple of decent saves from Rob Green. However, it’s West Ham who take the lead right at the end of the half, when Diamanti breaks free of Arsenal’s attempt at an offside trap. One-on-one with the keeper, he still looks like he’s going to muck it up, but his shot creeps in. Cue mass hysteria around us. On balance, West Ham might not have deserved it, but we’ll be quite happy for them to put one of the ‘big four’ out, Man U already having been disposed of by Leeds in the one o’clock kick-off.
Half-time entertainment is provided by a shoot-out between two sets of kids representing West Ham and Arsenal. Now seems as good a time as any to put forward my theory that this is how the finals of major international tournaments shoud be settled – hold a half-time penalty shoot-out between, say, England under-nines and Germany under-nines, and should the game end level after extra time then whichever nation won the little kids’ shoot-out is awarded the trophy. I’d love it, if only to see how viciously the tabloid football journos would lay into a bunch of eight-year-olds if we lost.
Bouyed by the goal, West Ham come out of the traps fastest in the second half and should increase their lead, but Frank Nouble and Junior Stanislas waste a couple of chances, and as the half wears on the whole team begins to show a marked reluctance to shoot at goal, much to the crowd’s frustration. Mind you, Arsenal seem equally reticent. Maybe they really aren’t bothered about progressing. Then Wenger substitutes Wilshere and Fran Merida for Diaby and Nasri, which seems to move them into a higher gear. Aaron Ramsey equalises with a low shot past Green, and while the Hammers are still adjusting to having been pegged back, Eduardo scores Arsenal’s second with a header that Green almost gets a hand to.
Mr Angry is apoplectic, but I don’t think there’s a word in his sweary repertoire I don’t already know. The faithful start sneaking out, even though Ted and I are convinced West Ham will equalise simply to prove you should never leave early. It doesn’t happen. The Arse go through and we go home for a hot cup of tea and to get the feeling back in our feet. So much for that extra pair of socks...
Outside the ground, we bump into Ted’s Arsenal-supporting compadre, Mark, who’s waiting for a friend to arrive with his ticket. They catch up on news and discuss all things space rock until my eyes glaze over, at which point Ted decides we perhaps ought to be getting inside.
The pre-match build-up music is almost preposterously pompous, Guns ’n Roses’ ‘Sweet Child Of Mine’ followed by smug Britain’s Got Talent string quartet Escala’s renditions of ‘Palladio’ (you know the one, it was used on an advert for dishwashing powder) and ‘Kashmir’. By this time, the hairs on the back of my neck are standing up, but that’s only because I’m shivering in the sub-zero temperatures.
We’ve got seats in the Bobby Moore Lower, although we don’t actually end up sitting in them. This part of the ground is where the hardcore Irons congregate, and they stand for the whole match. They also go through a repertoire of chants in the ninety minutes which aim the usual anti-Semitic jibes at Tottenham, declare Valon Behrami’s wife to be worthy of a spot of self-pleasuring and dismiss Frank Lampard as fat (and looking at the spare tyres of some of the men in the seats around me I can imagine their wives and girlfriends looking them up and down and saying, ‘Well, I wish you were as fat as him...’). Most impressively, particularly if, unlike us, you haven’t heard them do it before, they also sing ‘I’m Forever Blowing Bubbles’ to the tune of ‘Chitty Chitty Bang Bang’. I have no idea who first worked out it’s a perfect fit, but it is.
That said, there is discontent in the ranks. Alongside another of those knicker-material flags, a banner fastened to the edge of the stand proclaims ‘Sell the club, not the players’, and we find ourselves next to the angriest man in E13. As far as he’s concerned, Gianfranco Zola is manager simply because he’s a yes man, and they need to get rid of him and find someone who’ll stand up to the owners.
On the pitch at least, Mr Angry doesn’t seem to have too much to be angry about. They’re missing a few players through injury, including Carlton Cole and Scott Parker (or as he’s known in our house, Scotty Parkery), but so are Arsenal. Indeed, it isn’t quite as much of a reserve line-up as you’d expect from the Gunners, who clearly don’t view the FA Cup as much of a priority. First-choice keeper and man who looks like a cross between Basil Fawlty and the contents of a textile recycling bin, Manuel Almunia, may be missing, but the defence is pretty much their first choice and they have promising youngsters Aaron Ramsey and Jack Wilshere in midfield (though it must really be killing Wenger to have that English player in his line-up...). Arsenal make most of the running, and it seems to be a case of not if they’ll score but when, forcing a couple of decent saves from Rob Green. However, it’s West Ham who take the lead right at the end of the half, when Diamanti breaks free of Arsenal’s attempt at an offside trap. One-on-one with the keeper, he still looks like he’s going to muck it up, but his shot creeps in. Cue mass hysteria around us. On balance, West Ham might not have deserved it, but we’ll be quite happy for them to put one of the ‘big four’ out, Man U already having been disposed of by Leeds in the one o’clock kick-off.
Half-time entertainment is provided by a shoot-out between two sets of kids representing West Ham and Arsenal. Now seems as good a time as any to put forward my theory that this is how the finals of major international tournaments shoud be settled – hold a half-time penalty shoot-out between, say, England under-nines and Germany under-nines, and should the game end level after extra time then whichever nation won the little kids’ shoot-out is awarded the trophy. I’d love it, if only to see how viciously the tabloid football journos would lay into a bunch of eight-year-olds if we lost.
Bouyed by the goal, West Ham come out of the traps fastest in the second half and should increase their lead, but Frank Nouble and Junior Stanislas waste a couple of chances, and as the half wears on the whole team begins to show a marked reluctance to shoot at goal, much to the crowd’s frustration. Mind you, Arsenal seem equally reticent. Maybe they really aren’t bothered about progressing. Then Wenger substitutes Wilshere and Fran Merida for Diaby and Nasri, which seems to move them into a higher gear. Aaron Ramsey equalises with a low shot past Green, and while the Hammers are still adjusting to having been pegged back, Eduardo scores Arsenal’s second with a header that Green almost gets a hand to.
Mr Angry is apoplectic, but I don’t think there’s a word in his sweary repertoire I don’t already know. The faithful start sneaking out, even though Ted and I are convinced West Ham will equalise simply to prove you should never leave early. It doesn’t happen. The Arse go through and we go home for a hot cup of tea and to get the feeling back in our feet. So much for that extra pair of socks...
Wednesday 20 January 2010
Mission Aborted Part Two
With Boxing Day's game against Darlington having been called off (I blame Darloids doing the Indian Snow Dance for the postponement, but when I call Ted back in London he remains strangely quiet on the subject), Jenny and I are a little more optimistic as we meet up at Rotherham station ahead of our scheduled one o'clock kick-off at Chesterfield. There's been no news of an inspection and it's not been that cold overnight. Unfortunately, two minutes after the train pulls out of Sheffield, I get a call from my parents. The ref has arrived at Saltergate and promptly called the game off. Jenny calls her brother to let him know, as he's taking some friends to the game. He says it's been called off in the few minutes between him leaving home, having seen a piece on Sky Sports News where Chesterfield's groundsman has said he has no doubts the game will go ahead, and reaching the home of one of those friends.
All we can do is get off at Chesterfield as scheduled, where a phalanx of large policemen is waiting for the travelling Millers contingent, and turn round. Standing in the vestibule of the Cross-country train which very helpfully pulls in a couple of minutes later, we get chatting to a girl who's going from Tamworth to York to visit friends. She's not having the best of trips - she's had to stand most of the way and she's decided to wear a frock for a day out which involves ice skating - but she's pleasant company for the short journey back to Sheffield.
We've got half an hour to kill before the next train to Rotherham, so we take the opportunity to visit the new Sheffield Tap bar on the station. First impressions are good - there are eight Thornbridge Brewery beers on draught, a selection of assorted fruit beers, wheat beers, lagers and ciders and, for the wusses among us (yep, that's me!) a nice cup of coffee. With filled rolls being delivered while we're there, this is a place we'll be visiting again - and hopefully next time there will be some football involved, too!
All we can do is get off at Chesterfield as scheduled, where a phalanx of large policemen is waiting for the travelling Millers contingent, and turn round. Standing in the vestibule of the Cross-country train which very helpfully pulls in a couple of minutes later, we get chatting to a girl who's going from Tamworth to York to visit friends. She's not having the best of trips - she's had to stand most of the way and she's decided to wear a frock for a day out which involves ice skating - but she's pleasant company for the short journey back to Sheffield.
We've got half an hour to kill before the next train to Rotherham, so we take the opportunity to visit the new Sheffield Tap bar on the station. First impressions are good - there are eight Thornbridge Brewery beers on draught, a selection of assorted fruit beers, wheat beers, lagers and ciders and, for the wusses among us (yep, that's me!) a nice cup of coffee. With filled rolls being delivered while we're there, this is a place we'll be visiting again - and hopefully next time there will be some football involved, too!
Mission Aborted Part One
Baby, it's cold outside, so Jenny, Steve Ducker and I have wrapped up well. We know there's a pitch inspection planned for 9.30 ahead of the game against Dagenham, but as we're on the 9.10 out of Kings Cross we have to take the chance and get on the train. Twenty minutes out of London, my parents ring to let me know the inspection actually took place at nine and the game is off. We had been talking about spending the day in Sheffield if there was no football, but the early warning gives us the opportunity to get off at Stevenage and make our way back to our nice, warm homes. At least we tried...
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