uRRRs blogMessageboard Cold Turkey – then and now... |
Posted: October 3rd 2008
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Some four and a half years ago, I contributed a piece to the A Kick Up The Rs fanzine, which I reprint below for the benefit of interweb generations to come...and also because it again seems timely.
I have once more allowed myself to become over-immersed in the world of QPR messageboards (of which there are a disproportionate number, given our relatively modest fanbase). Thing is, as well as taking up far too much of my time, they’re driving me bonkers.
The last two weeks have been messageboard heaven. Five games in a fortnight...first up, three tricky looking aways in a row where we fear the worst yet come out smelling like roses and seemingly headed for a promotion / Wembley double header...followed by two ‘easy on paper’ home games which we cock up and suddenly we’re doomed...Never have so many knees been jerked by so many in such a short space of time.
So please read the below, and spare a thought for me as I begin messageboard cold turkey once more. My aim: no visits to unofficial sites til the end of October...wish me luck...
Hi, my name’s Nick, and I’m an addict.
It all started off as a bit of harmless fun. Got into football, chose a team to support, found some mates who supported them, went to some games. As a teenager, it got a bit more serious – I wouldn’t call it an addiction as such, but it was certainly a major habit. I started to worry about how many games I could get to. I’d travel all over the country just to get a fix, to bizarre places like Wrexham, Barnsley, and Cambridge. Luckily as my tastes became more sophisticated so the team’s on-pitch fortunes improved, and I could check out Manchester, Newcastle and Birmingham. I looked for ways of making money so I could feed the habit, taking on dead end jobs I’d never have considered previously just to earn a few quid – paper round, washing dad’s car, that sort of thing. It sounds desperate, but at the time it made perfect sense. I needed football, more specifically I needed Queen’s Park Rangers, and I’d do whatever it took to get it.
Eventually, maturity beckoned. Serious girlfriend, small mortgage, respectable wage packet, that sort of stuff. The habit was still very much there, but it felt under control, part of my routine but not to any unmanageable extent. I indulged for the crack more than anything, but there were positive signs for all to see too. Many a friendship from school, college or previous places of employment had fallen by the wayside, reduced merely to the annual exchange of Christmas cards. Yet those with whom I’d bonded over my hooped habit remained staunch friends for life, an extended family with a common purpose.
As I turned 30, married and with my first son newly arrived, I moved away from London, but not entirely from the temptations of W12. Sure, I cut down, for a while to as little as 10 a season. Then my boy grew old enough to show an interest, and with no shame I let him develop the habit too. Soon I was back up to 20 a season. Add the extra expense of travelling from the Midlands and paying for the lad, and it was getting harder to control.
The turning point came in 2000-2001. Indeed that short sentence alone is indicative of my problem, I was beginning to recall history in terms of football seasons rather than calendar years. As my team lurched in ungainly fashion towards relegation on the pitch and administration off it, I sought solace in the internet. At first it was just the club’s own website, a jolly rose-tinted specs / glass half-full affair that made me feel reconnected to the Bush despite my exile. However, without my even realising it, this was simply to prove a gateway to far more dangerous destinations. Soon, I was embroiled in the murky underworld of the unofficial messageboards.
These dens of sin can draw you in so easily. You feel as if you are in a virtual pub, where everyone shares, indeed celebrates, your habit. You get to know the regulars, and you feel comfortable in their company. There are some dubious characters lurking in the shadows, but you feel strong enough to ‘just say no’ to their cleverly worded invitations. “Wanna start a ‘sack Olly’ thread ?”; “Oi, check this link, it’ll tell you all about who’s really behind that £10 million loan” ; “Look, if you like this board, you really should try this one, it’s even better quality”….and, slowly but surely, they grind you down. You get tempted, you give it a whirl – and before you know it, it’s taken over your life. You tell your boss you need to do some research on the internet…you tell your wife you’ve had to bring some work home…you claim to have developed mild insomnia…these are the tell tale signs of addiction. That, and your spiralling monthly phone bill.
Things came to a head a couple of weeks ago. My wife had just given birth to our new son, and in a moment of sleep-deprived miscalculation, I agreed to family deputations from London and Newcastle coming to drool over junior for the first time the next Saturday afternoon. It was only when all the arrangements had been set in stone that the full horror of my mistake became clear to me – what about Chesterfield away ? I’d had the tickets for ages – front row seats, right above the tunnel. Feverish negotiations with the wife began. I wouldn’t have to leave ‘til, at a push, 1.45. If the guests had all arrived by 12.30, I could do my duty for an hour and a bit before making my excuses and slipping out the back door – “I’m just going to the football, I may be some time”.
No such luck. They roll up at 1.30, making it clear they need to be back on the road by 5.00. Drat. I can’t just up and leave – that would only reveal the extent of my addiction, and I’ll be excommunicated from the family for good. So naturally, deprived of the chance to go to the actual match, I adopt the sly tactics with which all true addicts become all too comfortable. “Checking the weather / roadworks for you on the Ceefax” means checking the score flashes and a few stolen minutes with Jeff Stelling on Sky Sports. "Excuse me whilst I pop to the loo” means “excuse me whilst I spend 20 minutes on the computer scouring every website that may have just the smallest scrap of info about events at Saltergate. “Sorry, just one quick work call” means, “sorry, gotta date with Incenzo on Clubcall”. Then, as the full horror of an unexpected, unwelcome, damn it TOTALLY UNACCEPTABLE 4-2 reverse unfurls, you’re in double addict’s turmoil – shocked by how the team can let you down, ashamed by how you can let your family down just for a quick fix.
And so, as the madness of the post-match post-mortems began to send the messageboards into Saturday teatime knee-jerk meltdown mode, I decided enough was enough. I needed to regain a sense of perspective. I have a new 2-week-old son, dammit. He’s tiny, he’s helpless, and totally reliant on his mum and me. I have two other kids still young enough to need my daily love and care. I have an ailing career that needs some serious attention. I have elderly parents with whom I should be cherishing every moment. And that’s just Planet Nick. What about all the serious abominations being carried out in the name of mankind the world over ? AND WHAT ABOUT OUR BLOODY AWFUL AWAY FORM THAT LOOKS SET TO COST US AUTOMATIC PROMOTION AND RETURN US TO PLAY-OFF HELL ???!!!
I resolve not to look at any unofficial messageboards for two weeks. I will follow my team in the old-fashioned way, relying solely on official club sources. Matchday programmes and information they release to the media at large. My only nods to the modern day are these : I will continue with my subscription to the club’s text messaging service, and I will allow myself to read the official site (but not the messageboard) on matchdays. Oh, and I’ll read A Kick Up The R’s as and when.
As I write, the two weeks are up and I’ve stuck to it. The text service informed me that Brentford tickets had sold out, that yet another ex-Watford man was set to sign, and gave me sporadic score updates. The website added match reports and managerial comment, and told me how to apply for Hartlepool tickets. And that’s all you get from these footballing equivalents of Pravda (that’s the former Soviet Union’s official propaganda newspaper, kids, not the overpriced Italian fashion house). AKUTRs failed to appear.
And do you know what ? I feel cleansed. More to the point, I feel sane. I am sure that, in this past fortnight, the messageboards have been awash with rumours from “well-informed sources”. We’re about to sign Thierry Henry’s brother / Stan Bowles’ nephew / the best centre half in the Ryman league. We’re about to go bust / get a £50 million cash injection / merge with Hayes. Maybe. Or maybe not. I don’t care. I love my team, I have my match tickets, I’ll go and support them. As and when word reaches me (and I know that it would) that some form of direct action may be needed to help save the club as we know it, I’ll answer the call. At this moment in time, that’s enough.
Reformed addicts are always told their resistance to temptation must be total. It’s a slippery slope out there, just ask George Best or Paul Merson. Is it like that in my case, I wonder ? Is it safe to watch the boards without posting (to ‘lurk’ in messageboard slang) ? If I post just occasionally, is it as dangerous as that one drink, one drag, one bet or one injection can be to other types of addict ? Only time will tell.
So if you see me at HQ, or Hartlepool, Wycombe or wherever, come and say hello. Buy me a drink, give me a fag, score me some speed, tip me off on a ridiculous bet. But whatever you do, please don’t ask me if I saw the posting on QPRnet.com from that mouthy Plymouth fan Green Gob, or the thread on QPR.ORG about reserve team fixtures that mutated into a debate about obscure ‘80s art rock bands. I am still in rehab mode, and have a young family to look after. I am still one of us – but don’t send me back down that dark road.
Nick Gordon Brown