blades blog Heaven knows I'm miserable now

Posted: May 23rd 2009
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After all the shenanigans, all the heartache, all the queuing, all the hanging on for a point or three, all the worry over ticket allocations, all the love and devotion, my season finally boils down to this . . . . I’m not going to Wembley!

I am the injured left back, the bloke who toils all season long to help his team into a final only to suffer an injury or red card in the semis. A niggling back spasm stretching back years finally wreaked its revenge three months ago and despite round-the-clock physio and a late fitness test, the club doc says it’s no-go for me. I’ve got to sit this one out. I am to see the soft tissue specialist (Professor Kleenex or Dr Balm?) at the Queens’ Medical Centre, and must rest.

My condition has worsened to the point of barely being able to walk 100 yards never mind skipping up Olympic way to scale endless flights of stairs to reach the £62 behind-the-goal seat which had my name on it. Not being able to get a ticket would have been easier to handle, devastating but easier. But having to turn down the offer of a long-queued-for entry to the new Wemberlee is just too much.  My first taste of the new ground was to see my own club take part in a meaningful fixture. I cannot live with myself and no-one can console me. Idle talk of London arrangements being made by family and mates turns me cold. I have requested, ney demanded, that I be kept out of that loop.

I am miserable and I will be miserable for the foreseeable future. God help me if it’s a classic, God help me if it’s a 3-1 down with 10 mins to go, 3-3 at full time, 4-3 ahead in extra time, 4-4 at full extra time, 11-10 win on penalties classic. God help me if they interrupt the news to tell us about one of the greatest football matches in the history of the game. God in heaven help me if it’s one of those games which Blades fans will talk about in 25 years time. When I’m old and grey and hear the kop start to sing about that famous club landmark – Wembley 2009 and the battle of Burnley, that war of the Roses when boys became men and the club’s recent history really began – I will be the outsider, like a conscientious objector, the bloke who refused to go into battle because his back hurt a little bit – aaaaaaaaaaargh! 37,000 Sheffield people will have a secret in which I will share no part.

Mountains have been moved to try to get me there. My brother-in-law arranged for me to have a wheelchair on the day but I harboured suspicions that he and my nephew were just trying to get into the super duper disabled seats thinly disguised as my carers. This was confirmed when they asked me to look a bit simple and stare into middle distance as much as possible. I turned down the wheelchair idea a) because I felt guilty that its owner was prepared to be bed-ridden for the bank holiday so that I could get to a football match and b) because I would have ended up like Lou and Andy (aka Walliams and Lucas) with me issuing “yeh, I know” answers to every question and running about getting a pie and a pint and hurrying back to the chair when no-one was looking.

It was mooted that I could be dropped off at the ground, that there’d be lifts to various floors, that I could ‘borrow’ disabled vehicle badges from distant family members with whom we’ve had no contact for several years: “Hi Auntie Flo, it’s Simon . . .  you remember, little Simon. That’s right . . . , sorry I’ve shown absolutely no interest in paraplegia over the years . . .  but can I borrow your disabled car badges?” Talk of me wearing a red and white permed wig in order to get over the fact that the badges were registered in a female name, was the last straw. I felt others were not taking my pain seriously.
And then I had to jump through the final humiliating hoop. I bought merchandise from the club shop. I’m a massive sucker for merchandise. So now flags, horns, t-shirts, face stickers, spongy fingers and the like are littered round the house. I did the same in 2003 and now every Blades bowler hat simply reminds me of a 3-0 thrashing in South Wales. In the end I threw most of that stuff in the bin. Anyway, the shop at BDTBL was heaving with people on mobile phones saying things like: “There’s no car flags left but do you want a soap-on-a-rope?” But I felt a fraud when a woman, arms laden with £5 spongy Blades fingers turned to me and said: “it’s so exciting . . . I can hardly wait. Do you know if we’re allowed to take the flags with sticks into Wembley?” I must have returned her a look which was so full of bile and putrid effluent, because I watched the smile run away and hide from her face, her happy innocent face turning into a ‘was-it-something-I-said?’ look of horror. I sloped quickly out of the shop encased in guilt and fury and rage.

So I’m destined to witness every last spit and cough from the comfort and anonymity of an armchair. I toyed with the idea that I wouldn’t watch it at all, the idea being that if I can’t go it’s not really happening. A childish reaction I know, and one which I couldn’t have subscribed to for any decent length of time but that’s how I feel. Ultimately I will trudge over to a kind friend’s house with all my merchandise and blow my horn and get excited. But there’s a detachment and a falsneness about watching your own team on telly and it will never be the same.

I managed a brief smile though when I was reminded of a broadside which Jasper Carrot used in his act back in the late 1970s. It’s called Cup Final 1976 and is about one guy watching the final between Man U and Southampton at home on his telly.

It was reputedly written by a bloke called Alan White and goes something like this:

Twas on the very first of May, to Wembley I did roam
I didn’t have a ticket so I ‘ad to stay at home,
I loaded up with telly, snacks and several crates of beer,
I flung a toilet roll at next door’s cat for atmosphere.

At first United’s onslaught was stopped by goalie brave
As Channon missed a sister and Stepney he did save
Then right on 40 minutes a disaster made me cough . . .
Mi’ vertical hold went up the spout, mi’ contrast knob fell off.

Then on the hour United they may well have took the lead
A right flank corner inswing from Hill struck firm indeed
Off Pearson’s nut across the goal to MacIlroy in flight
He met it sweetly with his head, it bounced off the upright

Then Osgood at the other end he opened up the door
As Channon’s cross gave Rodriguez a golden chance to score
Alas this bold captain had a chance he could not bag
He sliced the ball which nearly hit the right hand corner flag

Then Docherty in panic made s sub-sti-tu-tion
The disappointed Hill came off Mcreary he came on
United’s men they tried in vain to quell Southampton’s tide
They ran around in circles, vanished up their own offside

Then seven minutes from the end mi’ mind was all agog
It seems that Stokesy took a long ball from McCalliog
They say that Stepney had no chance for Stokesy struck it true
Why do the goals all seem to come when you’ve nipped off to the loo?

Then very soon the whistle blew, the Saints had won the day
The killer blow it was confirmed on the action replay
The day Southampton went beserk, the day they hit the booze
The day Southampton they did win and Doc’s men they did lose.