black cats blog How to ruin a Bank Holiday weekend

Posted: May 7th 2009
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The highlight of my season has been fulfilling a lifetime’s ambition by going to watch Barcelona play at Camp Nou during a lovely weekend in the city. They comfortably strolled past Atletico Bilbao AND I got to sing the Barca club anthem managing to keep perfect time with the tricky handclaps to the bemused admiration of neighbouring supporters. I like to think I came across as a cosmopolitan connoisseur of all matters football, cunningly disguising the fact I’d spent a few rioja fuelled nights preparing for the moment glued to a youtube clip which supplies an idiot’s guide to words and clap management (take care on google as you search that one…). I had that once in a blue moon “life doesn’t get any better than this” feeling as I  headed for the metro for a post-match celebration in the Barri Gotic, happily squished amongst beautiful, friendly people after watching exquisite football played by thoroughbreds. And I spent the following day on the beach.

As I legged it for the park and ride bus outside of the Stadium of Light on May Bank Holiday Sunday I was rather less blissed out. Like many others I fled my seat in the 75th minute after a supremely calm and organised Everton neatly tucked the game to bed. It was every man for himself to make sure we got away from the seething ground. One of the drivers was propped at the side of his bus smoking a tab as the fleeing hoardes descended. ”Stub that out marra and just drive!” yelled one old gadgy in the surreal mass getaway from bungled attempt at football.

I really hadn’t fancied going to the game, yet I fought against the crush of warning signs and topped my car up yet again with petrol and sweets for the trail north. It’s a club tradition to do badly against Everton and my pessimism increased with every mile and midget gem. A seven goal thrashing last season still smarts and I recalled bagging a day off school during the 70s after coming home midweek in the early hours tired and miserable on a supporters’ bus from Goodison. The “Dear Mrs Wilson, Carol could not come to school yesterday since she is suffering from relegation” drew a withering look from my waspish form tutor. She just didn’t understand. Years later and the toffees choked us yet again. Cahill usually scores against us but this time it was Steven Pienaar who looked the New World-beater against our apology of a team.

The Everton factor is small fry amongst the many reasons that have left me questioning why I didn’t stay at home and watch the match on tele with the attractive option of pressing the “off” button . We have been a shambolic for a good part of the season and are now reduced to the situation of hoping that other teams will be more crap than we are. We scraped past a dismal Hull team before being woefully thumped at West Brom. The message boards have been saturated with other words such as “spineless” “gutless” “clueless” for weeks now and such epithets now litter our match reports in the broadsheets. Add to that relegation, relegation and relegation. Today’s press has captain Dean Whitehead saying we need to be “harder to beat”. Blood and sand, dismal stuff.

I sulkily watched Pienaar scampering alongside the lively Jo, with Lescott, Cahill et al controlling and tidying things efficiently as our lumpen bunch scratched their heads. A bloke behind me started whingeing about the omission of our Andy Reid. I tried not to laugh out loud. I had to miss the recent Man Utd game . My son Henry texted me from The Stadium of Light to tell me that Reid was down with cramp. I was puzzled since it was 2.50pm and I hadn’t realised it had been an early kick off. Henry texted back to reassure me that I was right about the 3pm ko – Reid was writhing around in agony 10 minutes into the pre-match warm-up. He was on the deck a week later before the Hull game.

Coming up… Bolton and Portsmouth away (Monday night – I loathe Setanta). Our last game of the season is at home against Chelsea and with my crumbs of comfort mindset I’m hoping it’ll be a dead rubber for them.  The thought of waiting, rooted in the stands with eyes shut to hear Tannoy Bloke announce who amongst us, The Mags, Smogs or Hull does the drop with the Baggies is a little chilling. And it’s a Bank Holiday again. I’ve planned to use the holiday weekend effectively this time and filled it with distractions; lunch on the way up with family, shopping and a rip-roaring night out in the Toon, breakfast with friends in Tynemouth…and then to the SoL. What I’ll be doing after the game is in the hands of 11 blokes on the pitch, that’s if they can get through the warm up. Heaven help me.

It can be a bit of a worry when a key player keels over with cramp in the dying minutes of a game. There’s something quite depressing about seeing one writhing around in agony 10 minutes into the pre-match warm-up. Step forward Andy Reid (– oops forgot he’s unable stand up...)