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| Wrongly assumed I'd be sat next to Ron Jeremy |
Sometimes a writer* has to go deep undercover to get the story, to bring the truth to the public. It can involve doing a whole manner of things which are out of character or simply horrifying to be a part of. Last night was that very moment for me. Being such a diligent employee responsible individual key contributor to the office it was impossible for me to abandon my duties in the middle of the week for a trip to the north east. Cheers to the clever clogs at the FA for that scheduling tour de force.
Despite my glamorous plans to watch Sunderland vs Chelsea through a dodgy internet stream completely upstanding methods, a free ticket was on offer for this glamour tie, and was even on the way home. When I opted to give up the comforts of my own home to stand in the cold with a co-worker for two hours, I was under the impression that it was going to be some sort of hospitality situation. Maybe some pre-match tipple and a bite before we all sit in cushioned reclining seats in the heart of Putney while The Berba stands next to us playing his pan flute ....
Let’s call that our happy place for the evening.
As it turns out, those tickets were not hospitality. They were not even in the home end. I, could not be more Chelsea if I tried completely unbiased and neutral observer of the fine sport, was about to head into the thick of the away end. Spurs. Spurs!!! Of all the away ends that I had to walk into, it was theirs. Spurs. As I flashed back to some lovely chaps outside of White Hart Lane who were generous enough to offer me the ability to finish aging I thought how far would I have to go to avoid being found out.
Obviously, all songs were completely out of the question. Not just for it being absolutely nothing wronger in the world than that, the songs were an incredible mixture of just how to shoe-horn Y** into musical theatre. However, the real stand out was one that could only be described as a stretch: AVB’s Blue and White Army. You’re reading this. Easy enough to read, yes. Give all those words a go. Go on ... I’ll wait ...
Right. A fantastic example of something that doesn’t work. A for effort. Now, don’t get me wrong, Spurs supporters also have learned through some hilarious trial an error that this doesn’t work, so they’ve worked it out ... to have one group sing ‘AVB’s’ .. and another one ‘Blue and White Army’. The latter of course being forced so quickly it’s really Blewawarmy’. The former sounding like supporters are just calling themselves AVB’s. Without the voluminous hair and the crouch, you’re just not.
Songs out. Check.
What to do if there’s a goal? Let’s be honest, did anyone really expect either of those teams to score? One of those teams failed to score a goal in the whole of November, the other team was Fulham. It was a good hour of passing the ball around without much threat to either goal, and a whole away end moaning about a) Jermain Defoe b) the sideways passing c) Lewis Holtby d) Jermain Defoe e) Michael Dawson. They moaned alot about Defoe, he deserves and extra mention. Rather than the typical sigh of disappointment at a misplaced pass or shot, there were some rousing boos. For a moment I thought I was at The Emirates. And it was the end of a half. Obviously it was neither. I was also treated with a rendition of ‘Getting Sacked in the Morning’ for their strong and fearless leader.
How could they be booing. They were in for a treat. These fans were witness to one of the rarest moments known to Premier League football -- the match where The Berba decides he wants to play. He even ran, well, lightly jogged 30 yards. But he did it. And was arguably deserving of a goal as he, more than anyone else, tested Lloris’ resolve and concussion. I for one felt honoured and will be able to say I was there when ...
At this point, it was getting more difficult to conceal my identity as the whole thing was getting funnier by the moment. Arguably I could not have been in a better place when Fulham opened up the scoring. I covered my face to mask a fit of laughter -- which just appeared empathetic.
Things did unravel a bit. With smart phones, people all around were constantly checking scores. For some reason, they showed particular interest in the game I was hoping to watch. Subtle celebrations were had each time they were annoyed that Chelsea had scored again. And by subtle I mean a bit of a jump and then a frantic check of my own phone to confirm. In no way is the background of my phone Frank Lampard and a European Cup. And if it is, I was just hoping that they didn’t recognise what a European Cup was.
Of course, the dead giveaway that I wasn’t one of them is that for some of the least penetrating football being played on Wednesday night Spurs only went and equalised and somehow got a winner. And as 2999 away fans have a bit of a hoot and howl there was one stood among them hating life. And judging.
Obviously I did make it out of Craven Cottage in one piece. And came away less scathed than I normally do from most other matches I attend. Possibly because apparently no one in that end knows how to leave a ground and took longer to get out of there than it does from Wembley. Apparently everyone forgot how to walk up and down steps.
I’d apologise for not discussing the activities on the pitch more, but anyone who managed to see it will know why. No words would do The Berba actually caring about a match justice. But for those of you who want the full match report up until the goal scoring fun of the final 15: sideways pass, sideways pass, run, sideways pass, lose possession. Repeat. Sideways pass, sideways pass, run, sideways pass, shoot wide.
jb x
*just humour me and just say me
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