The Diary

02 May 2004: Reading - Valhalla, Or Our Ragnarok?

Here I am, once more, on this murky and rain-sodden night, hot-foot from Reading?s Mad Stad, typing this little lot like micro-circuitry?s about to go out of fashion ? and still I?m left wondering what manner of silly sods we were playing at today? Maybe I am getting things slightly out of proportion, that unexpected forfeiture of the points coming literally minutes before the end, and coming hard on the heels of our promotion triumph last Saturday, but hey ? there was a game of football to be won or drawn out there, the title still to battle for, and we blew it, totally and utterly. Without wishing to appear ungrateful for what we?ve achieved thus far, starting that game safe in the knowledge that the job was done, pretty much, surely to goodness we could have abandoned for once that ultra-defensive carapace lovingly constructed by our leader over the course of the last 43 games? If ever there was a time our players needed a break, a chance to kick off their nicely polished best shoes, and showboat for once, then today was it. Instead, what we got was what I would term ?prim maiden aunt? football, safe, nice, cautious, prudence taken to the nth degree, care taken not to rock the boat, recognised strikers taken off, everyone behind the ball ? and in the end, we paid. Oh, whoops.

A shame, that, as the rest of the day had gone so swimmingly for everyone, as well. Never in my entire life have I seen such a vast and imaginative array of fancy-dress on display; not just horny helmets, mind, but costumes culled from just about every genre and/or period of history you care to mention. Fair play, also, to all those Reading people, who rose to the challenge by turning out bewigged in assorted variants on the theme of ?ginger? themselves. Loved it to bits. Our story really began once we?d arrived in the vicinity of the ground, but en-route, we?d all been subjected to The Noise?s own brand of ?in-car entertainment?, big-time. I reckon The Fart has the perfect answer; he simply closes his eyes and nods off! Not that you?ll get him to admit it, of course; as far as he?s concerned, he?s simply ?resting his eyes? but we know better, don?t we, Tel? But I digress, somewhat. Now, where was I? Oh, yes. Once there, we had to hastily abandon Plan A, a pit-stop in a pub quite near the town centre (not within realistic walking distance, despite what we?d been told), and go for Plan B instead ? patronising the Holiday Inn?s bar instead ? a wise choice, as it turned out, for no sooner had we stiff-armed the door and walked in, we were greeted by the sight of some of the most unlikely-looking Vikings you?ll ever clap eyes on this side of the North Sea, horns, swords, shields, the lot.

While ?Im Indoors got the drinks in, we made our way towards the window seats, where, sat in a corner, like Little Jack Horner (or should that be Eric Bloodaxe, plus his nearest and dearest?), were various members of The Drinking Family, suitably costumed, and judging by the large numbers of empty glasses adorning their table, they?d been in-situ for quite some time. Since twenty past ten that morning, would you believe? I?m now firmly convinced that come the time for the Last Trump, when we all ascend Heavenward, stark wotsit naked, as per current fundamentalist belief, waiting at the Pearly Gates, and clutching a pint (or three!) will be our bibulous chums, all wanting to know what kept us, and quietly tipping us off about some moonshine St. Peter?s got stashed away! Actually, once I?d sat down, they did try to convince me that they?d recently managed to last a full 10 hours without alcoholic refreshment once passing their lips. So where were they, then? Banging tambourines in a Sally Army hostel? Making up the numbers at a Band Of Hope meeting? Whatever they?d been up to, their strong assertions of recent total abstinence were not at all convincing.

And, as we ate, drank and made merry in true Nordic tradition, still they poured in. And, judging by the distinctly-unbalanced state of some of our warrior band, ?poured? was the operative word, believe you me. They came in all sizes: big ?uns, little ?uns, small children, right down to enormous flaxen-haired Brunhilde-impersonators, you know, the sort of buxom female figure you tend to associate with the more bum-numbing Wagner operas, helmet, cloak, shield, spear, the works. And as for the ladies, well!?. Unsurprisingly, as yet more ?warriors? shoehorned themselves into the limited available bar space, so did the serious carousing begin in earnest. It all started in fairly low key, that Viking theme from the Kirk Douglas film of the same name comprising the warm-up, closely followed by the song praising the talents of the Danish player who inspired our fancy-dress-fest, then the whole thing progressed to (degenerated into?) a bit of good old 21st century abuse mainly centred around the plight of our almost-relegated local rivals. The tune is ?Yellow Submarine?, the words (just in case any of you feel constrained to let rip at your place of work, or in the middle of the nearest shopping-mall!) are: ?We?re going up, and The S**t are going down!?, plus, as the hour wore on, several variants, all pitched around the general theme of ?gloat?, with a huge great dollop of schadenfreude chucked in for good measure, and all very embarrassing listening indeed, should you happen to be a Dingle. Not that I was expecting to see any there, mind, but you never know.

It was quite a longish trek from there to the Madjeski, but once there, and stood on our hilly vantage-point, what a sight there was to behold. Our arrival was rather well-timed, actually ? it coincided with that of the coaches, and in great number, too. And, as each vehicle disgorged their occupants onto the token bit of pavement separating that grassy knoll (ooer, shades of Dallas, 1963, there!) from the road proper, all that was visible, as far as the eye could see, more or less, were horns ? thousands of ?em, and all bobbing up and down in complete synchrony with the gait of their wearers. Some, possessive of an individualist streak, no doubt, had turned one horn upwards and its companion downwards, on each, as appropriate, were words indicative of the divisions both us and The Dingles would be inhabiting next season. Others wore their horny helmets very much as per Viking Regulations, but went to town on the costumes, instead. A shame the weather was so dull, though; the whole thing absolutely cried out for the sort of gloriously sunny day that accompanied our promotion last Saturday, but you can?t have everything, I guess.

Still, overcast or none, it didn?t prevent me taking pictures, well over a hundred, in fact. Praise be the person who first thought up the idea of digital photography, because had I been snapping using conventional methods, I would have spent a small fortune on film today. Those I?ve taken I?ll use in our ?zine next season, as decent match-action pics will be at a bit of a premium by then. Nothing to do with me, guv; its just that being caught with a decent camera in a Premiership ground is a hanging-offence, near enough, and I?m too young and beautiful to have brushes with the law ? so rumour has it.

And I wasn?t the only one with David Bailey-type aspirations; every five minutes, or so it seemed, there came a tap on the shoulder and an invite from The Fart to either take pictures of him with a group, or pose with Viking chums myself. Returning once more to the almighty warrior procession wending its weary way up that incline, around 20 minutes before we decided to go in, there began to appear some rather eclectic variants on the general Nordic theme. Examples? OK ? try this one for a starter of ten. Fingers ready on those buzzers? Right, then ? what do crustaceans have in common with Vikings and followers of the Baggies? Answer? Nothing whatsoever ? unless you happen to be a member of Fraser?s Crazy Gang, that is. Yep, there he was, the man himself, trying to make like a lobster, (a cooked one as well, being bright red in colour, rather than blacky-brown), but as you don?t hear of many lobsters issuing forth almighty Black Country oaths when clobbered in the hind claw region, I?m not sure the David Bellamy persuasion among us were entirely convinced. If I remember my biology correctly, crustacea are not very successful members of the arthropod family when confined to dry land, which probably explains the almighty tangle our hero was getting into every time he tried to walk! Mind you, my continuing cries of ?In the pot, in the pot, in the pot!? didn?t help all that much. Thinking on, though, I suppose we could establish a loose affinity between those of the horny persuasion and the phylum arthropoda if we wanted to; being sons of the sea, and all that, I expect Vikings consumed lobster in quantity, but Fraser? That?s a snack too far, I reckon.

Having finally dispatched our red-carapaced chum, antennae twitching like a good ?un, to the relative safety and still waters of the away turnstiles, just when I?d thought it was finally safe, up marched the bloody military! Around a dozen of them, there were, all in combats, cam-creamed to the gills, and one even wore a steel helmet of current British Army pattern ? how the hell he managed to get it through the turnstiles, I don?t know. With a get-up like that, it could only be The Satanic Nurses; a couple of games ago, I?d heard a rumour they were going to wear military apparel for the occasion, and I didn?t quite believe them ? but I sure as hell do now. One, clearly the ?commanding officer?, Dad?s Army-type officer?s uniform and all the rest (think Captain Mainwaring!) sporting various items of camouflage from various orifices, plus other martial-looking items which totally defied description.

I later found out they?d even decked up their minibus with the stuff, and it?s at times like these I find it rather difficult to believe that among that group were several very well-qualified and highly responsible male nurses, plus a local councillor of some prominence! Still, as their phizzogs appeared on the front page of the E and S this afternoon, I reckon they?ve now been well and truly ?outed?, or as near to it as makes no odds, so take a bow, Councillor Darren Cooper, and your little ?platoon?! And, if any of you lot out there are due to go into Sandwell hospital for any reason in the near future, it might pay you handsomely to study those faces very carefully indeed ? and run like the clappers should they happen to be working on your ward!

Thus far, thus very funny indeed, and as we?d shifted our remaining stock, more or less, by then, it was time to go through those turnstiles, and sample that cracking atmosphere for ourselves. And, as we emerged from the narrow opening like corks from a bottle (with accompanying sundry cries from other Baggies of, ?Mind me ?orns, mate!?), it came as no great surprise to find the central concourse below the stand absolutely full to the gunnels with thirsty Baggies putting the finishing touches to the bevvy-bashing they?d embarked upon in and around the town some hours previously. Plus, of course, yet another musical reprise for that firm old favourite, ?We?re going up and the S**t, etc?.? The place was so packed, it was quite difficult to thread one?s way through to the ?facilities?, so temporarily abandoning ?Im Indoors, there was no help but to thrash a way through, one way or another. Even so, it still took me a good 5 minutes to get there; just as well, I wasn?t crossing my legs, really!

It was only when I got to our seats I finally appreciated the true immensity of our dressing-up day; everywhere I looked in that away-end, horny helmets, zillions of ?em. And swords: some Baggies, in fact, were busily engaged in re-enacting some of those Kirk Douglas scenes for the benefit of their kids. It truly was the sort of scene that makes your jaw sag about six feet when you first clap eyes on it. God alone knows what the players made of it all, Our Tommy in particular.

As we?d gone in comparatively early, the players were still warming up on the pitch, shooting-in, and all that jazz. It?s at this point I really do have to ask the following question of our finest, viz: Which of you lot out there have got it in for poor Martin Lewis, then? One minute there was The Noise, poor lad, nattering ten to the dozen, as per usual - and the next? Crazily-contorted, totally cross-eyed, red of face, clutching what are commonly known as the ?private parts? and issuing forth words my mother never even knew existed, that?s what! Yep, that?s right, The Noise was well and truly struck in the family-jewels by one of our finest using the goal for target-practice, and judging from the agonised expression on his face, it most certainly wasn?t a love-tap, either! Precisely who did the damage, I don?t know, but of one thing I?m certain. Our very own ?in-car entertainment? will be talking in a very squeaky voice indeed for the foreseeable future! Ouch.

It took quite some time for our hero to recover his composure after that, but as he did so, out came our finest, to lusty roars from the throats of their Norse-imitating followers. All thoughts of testicular damage now forgotten, as The Noise, plus thousands of others, paid due homage to their soon-to-be Premiership heroes. Oh, and as we warbled mightily, there was a game going on out there, suddenly ? and what a changed side we had out there. Big Dave was back, Lloyd Dyer got his first start since his recent accession to the seniors, and James O?Connor was also given a berth. We were, of course, missing the twin talents of AJ (injured/knackered), plus Scouse Jase (suspended), and it would show. During those opening minutes, events on the pitch very much took second stage to those off it, what with beach-balls, balloons and sundry other inflatables flying around in quantity. And there were yet more ?Black Country Waves? of course; it all started to our far right, rippled across to our vantage point, just behind the goal, then rippled around the corner, where it appeared to come to a juddering halt. Boos for the home supporters from our faction, and another attempt was then made; this time, they cottoned on to the idea. Within a matter of seconds, not only had one cleared the flanks, it then traversed the home end before finding its way back to Mummy, once more, to much applause from our lot. Oh ? and guess who immediately rose to their feet to a person when we began to sing, ?Stand up if you hate the Wolves?? Not surprising, really: you only need to undertake a brief study of both clubs? recent history to truly appreciate the magnitude of the baggage carried by both clubs!

It was around that point we saw yet another remarkable sight in the sky; not a UFO as such (although some might care to argue the toss with me), more a couple of small motorised hang-gliders slowly puttering their way across the firmament; trust some anonymous Back Country wit to shout, ?That?s the cowin? Iraqi Air Force up theer!? (Meanwhile, back on the pitch?..!) While all this had been going on, Hughsie went close, as did Big Dave, while at the other end, our ?mobile eclipse? of a defender had to nip in quite smartish to prevent Reading taking the lead. Both sides had their chances to open the scoring, so we were quite happy to reach half-time still enjoying parity.

It was while I was heading towards the ?facilities? once more, I spotted The Satanic Nurses busily topping-up their blood-alcohol levels; at least that was one well-known aspect of military behaviour they could readily emulate! And, as I passed them on my way back to my editorial colleagues, and saw them each knock back yet another pint of the beery stuff, said I, to them, with some feeling, ?Thank God we?ve got a bloody Navy!?

Back for the second sitting, once more, and a pre-second-half change of plan. Off went The Horse, and on came Dobes. I can only assume that the former Bluenose had taken some knock or another. Things began to take a distinctly-worrying turn at this stage, as suddenly, Reading seemed to be making all the running, and it was only the grace of God that still kept us bloodless. Then, with about 10 minutes gone came the subbing we couldn?t understand. Off came Hughsie, and on came Sakiri, to anguished cries of, ?Are you really sure?? from my other half. And, shortly after that, what seemed to be the best chance of the entire game went begging; Dobes had a poke at the shot, but without success, and the ball then dropped to Lloyd Dyer ? but for some unaccountable reason, instead of smashing the thing into the net, he found the side netting instead.

Clem then came on for Robinson with about half an hour still remaining on the clock. There was also a worrying moment for Houlty; going up for a high cross, he landed on his back in a very awkward manner indeed. I?m no expert, by any means, but to me, he didn?t half seem to land with an awful jolt to those vulnerable lumbar regions ? ouch! Will he manage to complete all our fixtures before finally bowing to the inevitable, I ask myself? By now, the game was reduced to total boredom, and with our attack pretty much out of the equation by then, I?d assumed we?d take the draw and be happy with that. Wrong! With just a couple of minutes left, our rearguard suddenly and collectively decided they needed a little nap. With ?Do Not Disturb? signs aplenty hanging around the middle of the park, the lad Sidwell managed to run from the halfway line to the edge of the box, size up the shot, get out the tape-measure, scribble down the necessary velocity and wind-speed calculations, wave to his mum in the stands, then fire home past the thin-air clutching Houlty. Oh well, it was a nice thought while it lasted, nicking that Championship off Norwich, but with that strike went any realistic chance of making Delia a very cantankerous Canary indeed.

The most annoying thing, though, was the defensive mindset that seemed to govern our play the whole game through. Why the hell we had to live in fear and trembling of the home side for most of the 90 minutes, I really don?t know. It?s not as if we wanted to play for the draw to keep alive, say, our chances of making the final cut, or something. We were the promoted side; they were the play-off aspirants. Would it have really rent the fabric of the known universe to have just said to our players beforehand, ?Now the hard work?s over and done with, just go out there and enjoy yourselves?? I think not. Although we won?t claim the title come season?s end, I do hope we put in a better performance versus The Stokies next week; I take some comfort, though, from the fact that we never put in dire displays twice on the bounce. Against those potty Potters, nothing less will do.

And finally?. The good news? The Dingles are down, as near as damn it ? unless they can conjure up a couple of 15 or 16-0 wins for those final games, of course!

 - Glynis Wright

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