I've said this many times before but I love this list! Poetry your Reverence! Sarge
Sent from my iPhone On 5 Oct 2013, at 23:40, Gav Burnage <gav.burn...@googlemail.com> wrote: > MATCH OF THE AWAYDAY > Derby County 2 - 2 Leeds United > Pride Park, Derby, 31st October 1998 > > Get up. It's raining, goes on raining. Bike it to the station, and my legs > get wet. > > On the train, two nice old dears reminisce about their husbands' lovely > college rooms. > Outside, the East Anglian fields are draped in sheets of water. > > Change at Leicester, with time for a walk. The town is busy, and full of > Army & Navy Stores; defensively, some women peer out from black linen > letter boxes. > > Change at Nottingham. On the platform opposite a baby howls in desperation; > a man ignores it, goes on ignoring it. Is this what evolution's for? A > corned beef sandwich and a large tea please: they are smiled to me > dutifully by Kerry, whose name badge I have plenty of time to memorize, and > who is being gracious under the pressures of working the station tea room > alone with some awkward Saturday customers. > > Arrive at Derby. Buses wait to whisk away fans straight to the ground. I go > to the Brunswick. The usual clump has gathered round a piano, in a > difficult-to-find upstairs corner, warming up with the usual brew of beer, > and gossip, jokes and laughter. > > Nige's “5 minutes’ walk to the ground” turns out to be another joke, one > that takes twenty minutes to tell at the rate we go. Inside, “We're at the > front, we'll be on Match of the Day”, I say. Dorigo's playing for them, but > gets a great reception from us (don't we always love the team that won us > the title?) Early on, Rob Molenaar splats someone flat to give away a > penalty and a goal, but later head-rockets one in at the right end to make > amends, this highly emotional kind of one-two being a familiar trick of > his. Harry Kewell scores a neat one from the edge of the box, but it took a > deflection — only, as they say, it was a Slight one rather than the > outright theft of a much more juicy Wicked one. Anyway: Joy. Stephen > McPhail is pleased as punching the air right in front of us. We jump at the > goal and love the high spirits bursting out in our young team. > > At half-time we cheer and boo the latest scores, and I laugh for the bloke > who, head in despairing hands, is sitting plum next to the Happy Bloke from > London who, childlike, just loves tapping that toy Leeds drum of his, > non-stop and all the time, framing the perfect Match of the Day half-time > crowd shot. > > First half good, second half bad. Lucas Radebe goes off on a canvas > stretcher, torn between the pain in his leg and the loud reception he gets > from us: he grimaces and applauds back, and, right in front of us, looks > humbled by the support, deafened by the volume of his own name. > > We miss Lucas. They equalize. More pressure. We hang on for 2-2. > > Buses wait to whisk away fans straight to the station. Me, Dave and Niggy > think this time we might as well, but, on the back seat and too late, the > Munich ‘58 song tells us we're on the wrong one. A blue-jumpered, > England-badged, no-haired guy shouts at everything and everyone, bangs the > window. Outside his targets bite, bang back. Inside again someone else > grabs out the window for a hat. Like Derby shirts, the sudden madness going > on is black and white, and our more colourful shades are grimly greyed out. > The world is rapidly rewinding back to front. Boots aim at the window. > Normal songs sung now sound sinister, evil. “We're Yorkshire's Republican > Army, we're barmy”. The window buckles and bends. The nicked hat is stuffed > down the nicker's crotch, and brandished out and up like a trophy. At the > front, a girl grins knowingly at No-Hair. He rants some more, drunk on iced > hate, boot at the window again. We expect it to give, and blood and glass > to fly. > > “You're a disgrace to the good name of Leeds United,” No-Hair tells us. > > The bus speeds off for the station. The long way round. What can you > usefully say back to something like this, I wonder. Jesus Loves You. Is > this what evolution's for? > > The station — police and safety. Nutters and lunatics scramble first. Then > we thank the driver; he doesn't believe us. The pubs are shut, but we > wander to an empty hotel bar, and sink an edgy pint in safety, and let > normal service resume. “I was frightened”, says Niggy. I was too, but > blokily blather about fight or flight. More pints, sunk slower; it's Bass, > the Fruit of the Trent, and we sniff to see if (as Sarah puts it) “It > smells like wet dogs.” We talk of football nutters in Halloween movies and > what happens to bodies left to medical science. > > Back to the station. We pass up the chance for food; “There's a chip shop > at home with me name on it.” > > More trains, more banter; everyone is a fan. Next to us there's Darren the > Derby fan, down as usual from Boro with the kids and a pack of Derby mates. > A nearby Sheffield Wednesday season ticket holder lends us his Sports Green > for the full-times, and says today proves what a w*nker Danny Wilson really > is. Some others sing “Stand up if you love the Leeds”. A Brummie fan moans > about their ref. > > Darren from Boro gets his specs out and looks down his nose at this letter > he's got from Derby County, telling him off. > > “It was this Man U fan in our end – he jumped up when they equalised and > waved his arms about. I thought it's just like last year all over again. It > was the red mist, I don't normally, but he was goading us like mad. I went > down and just slapped him. Wasn't a real punch.” > > “Yeah well it says here you've a choice — relocate to another stand or hand > the season ticket over. Hit a Man U fan with glasses, would you? Lucky that > steward said he provoked you.” > > The jokes, moans and stories flow on. There was this luxury holiday > timeshare in Lanzarote, all mod cons and well-appointed, brand-new and > brochure-perfect. “We'll be off for a swim in our pool,” promised Darren. > When they arrived the kids got on their trunks and inflatables, took a > quick scan round for the absent pool, then said “Dad, get digging”. > > Finally something twigs Darren on to the fact he's been confiding in Leeds > fans for the past half-hour, and he groans comically. “Dad, get digging,” > say the kids at every available opportunity. The other Leeds sing “Stand up > if you hate Man U”, and one feels obliged to keep standing till Sheffield — > so fundamentalist all he's missing is the black linen pillar box to pout > out from. > > At Sheffield it's Cheers all round, and See you next week to Niggy and > Dave, and on to Doncaster, alone. It's the end of October, but Christmas > comes early to Donny. The night is cold, hard, but bright, as the walk from > station to shopping centre reveals the town is decked out with real stars > above and plenty of electric tinsel ones below, well in advance. The > subways shelter a few folk with sleeping bags imagining passers-by who come > along bearing gifts. Saturday night's starting up, and the gangs are > roaming: girls in long legs and short skirts, blokes in shirt sleeves, > tails and tongues hanging out. > > Hunger alters my plans; my name changes to MacDonald, and I eat a Big Mac. > Two drunk old blokes fumble the cash for one, too; three times they ask if > there's mustard on it, eat half, then drop it on the floor, cursing some > more. Back outside the dance music blares, the tinsel town pounds. > > The next train, the London train, is from Aberdeen or something, so so what > if it's a few minutes late. Smooth, erudite students from America say Paul > Simon is awesome. We are sorry the buffet can't serve hot drinks due to a > mechanical failure, but the microwave is still working. > > Peterborough. The South. It's raining. Stevenage. It goes on raining. I get > out. Fireworks are going off for some reason, but straight into the clouds, > so it's the neon shop signs and Tesco's car park that lighten the dampness. > > From the footbridge I can see down into a subterranean art gallery where > people are viewing carefully tended works oblivious to the watery world > above. In the station there’s another room waiting, people inside glazing > outside at the blank, endless wet. > > On the platform a man carefully picks out a speck from the corner of his > girlfriend's eye, then holds her waist contentedly as the patient rain > drips about them. They dive into their train entangled. Evolution's back on > track. > > The last leg at last, quietly back to Cambridge. A middle-aged, grey-haired > man sits reading a large, old, red dictionary. > > I bike it home, my legs get wet. > > Des Lynam shuns us on the telly; they only show the goals, filmed, what's > worse, from behind us, so our moment of glory is gone for another week, but > there's a great shot of Lucas looking all pained and grateful. “Let's hope > we'll meet again on Tuesday for Leeds against Roma,” says Des at the end, > but his closing headline omits a soundbite caution against the bus ride. > > I go to bed, flick off the light. > > They miss out so much on Match of the Day, I reflect. > > I dream of my wife-and-children-to-be, and Leeds United. > > > (c) and all that Gav Burnage > _______________________________________________ > Leedslist mailing list > Info and options: http://mailman.greennet.org.uk/mailman/listinfo/leedslist > To unsubscribe, email leedslist-unsubscr...@gn.apc.org > > MARCHING ON TOGETHER _______________________________________________ Leedslist mailing list Info and options: http://mailman.greennet.org.uk/mailman/listinfo/leedslist To unsubscribe, email leedslist-unsubscr...@gn.apc.org MARCHING ON TOGETHER
