The chaps thought I was mad going to Stoke. Several reasons. Number one was that the match was being shown live on telly and could be watched in the comfort of our local pub. Number two was the fact of our poor form. We’ve played four and lost four. And reason three was that it was a lunchtime kick-off on the advice of the police. A lunchtime kick-off is meant to act as a deterrent to visiting fans, as it means their having to rise before dawn for the long journey, and with little or no prospect of a decent pre-match drink on arrival to fortify themselves for the game. Even the manager and the centre-half weren’t going up, they said. They had decided instead to stay at home to fast and pray and observe the Jewish holy day of Yom Kippur.
But I am an old disciple who delights in perversity. And Stoke away was my first opportunity to watch the lads this season. Besides, I like Stoke and Stoke people. You can have a good laugh in Stoke. About the lunchtime kick-off and not being able to have a drink, however, they had a point. I like a drink before the game. Which is why, at ten thirty, while the majority of our fans were slumped in their coaches on the motorway, under threat of having their passports taken away if they as much as imagined having a beer, I was already there, in Stoke, shaved, breakfasted, informed (by my complimentary hotel copy of the Independent) and ready to rumble.
I walked out of the hotel, across the car park and crossed the road to the stadium. There was a policeman every five yards of pavement for the Pope’s visit to Birmingham. The ratio for ours to Stoke was about the same. I found the away supporters’ end and approached the turnstiles. A team of about 20 orange-jacketed stewards looked up with interest and some bemusement as their first away supporter of the day sauntered up in a grey pinstriped suit and a cream shirt with cuff links. One of these motioned me to hold out my arms while he frisked me. As he did so I looked down at his shiny, shaved head and the swallow tattoo where his neck should have been. Another steward handed me a piece of paper warning of the dire consequences of standing up while the game was in progress. Smoking was not allowed anywhere in the stadium, he said.
But was there a bar? I said. And was it open? He admitted that there was. I went through the turnstile and, yes, in the steel girder and pre-cast concrete area under the stand was a bar. It wasn’t much of one. A heavy metal grill was pulled down leaving a gap of about six inches for the exchanging of plastic glasses of lager for coin of the realm. I took up a position at the end and got started. I had the bar to myself for about half an hour, then a coach arrived and the first members of our tribe came clicking in through the turnstile. I love our tribe. I love it for its diversity. Here they came: the dads steering their youngsters, the druggies, the comedians, the men of violence, the men of peace and unalterable goodwill, the loud, the diffident, the meek, the quick, the wealthy, the skint. By the time I’d managed to get six pints down my throat we were six-deep at the bar and everybody was throwing back their heads and singing. Someone had invented a song about the manager pretending to have a day off for Yom Kippur but going to a massage parlour instead. It was a catchy and familiar Hebrew tune and we sang it over and over again.
The next thing I knew it was time to climb the stairs, find my seat and watch the game. And to everyone’s astonishment and delight our players were not only on the case, but ten minutes before half-time we scored a goal, which is not something you see every day, let me tell you. I was flying.
At half-time I whipped down to the bar for a couple more, then I popped into the toilet for a crafty fag. Almost immediately two of these shaven-headed, orange-jacketed stewards came in, picked me up, half marched, half carried me to the door and slung me out of the stadium. I was standing there looking at the closed door, when it opened again and this other chap was slung out behind me. Except the stewards were taking a more hardline approach to this guy, and by way of a fond farewell they were grinding his face into the tarmac and one of the stewards had his thumb in his eye. At that moment a huge, relieved, slightly hysterical cheer went up inside the stadium, which could only have meant that the home team had equalised.
But were he and I downhearted? Well, a little.
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