London Carling (Cup Final)

I wish I had an eventful day to tell all about, but it wasn’t really that good in a particularly interesting way.  Regardless of which – I’m going to tell you anyway.

God dropped off at Chorlton St at 8 in the AM, met Martin and nipped to WH Smiths for a water. There was a lad in front of me dithering over whether to get two big bottles or 4 little ones.  I think the little ones were cheaper (but you got a little less) but did involve having 4 bottles.  He plumped for the 4 little ones after a while of pondering.  Thankfully I was too tired to build up my textbook rage and so merely smiled at the situation……which was about to be a blessing.  And I’ll tell you why:  the bottle ditherer was none other than the lad coming with us (who I’d not met).  Despite being in front of me I managed to get back to Martin first: I think he was struggling to carry four bottles or something.  When we were introduced I gave him a knowing look that said ‘You know that you took far too long deciding whether to have 2 little bottles each or one big bottle each, and I know you took too long deciding whether to have 2 little bottles each or one big bottle each but I’m not going to say anything, it will be our secret’.  If you can do a look that says that.

We positioned ourselves like a young Gary Lineker on the shoulder of a Polish defence and swerved the larger queues ending up being first on the third coach.  Yeah we took the back seat like the ICF took so many home ends in the 80s.  This paragraph is simile heavy innit?  I’d love to say they were accurate but – despite the hyperbole of written/film accounts I’d suggest that most ICF run-ins were considerably more aggressive and contested than three out of shape lads of about 30 (31 is about 30 so fuck off) slowly walking to the back of an empty coach to take the only 3-seater available.  Though happy not to have been sat on my own, or make one of the others sit on their own, I did question the logic of sitting next to the john for what would be a cumulative 10 hour session of being driven (and not in the way young lawyers are – in the way passengers on public transport are driven).

The immediate two rows were then taken up by one group of lads.  I would immediately hate them: but over the day develop a fondness for them that would be so strong that I would almost feel sorry for one of them having something really quite bad happen to them.  I’m so compassionate it makes me sick.  They were very manc lads – and very harmless.  But they were young and loud – the kind who say stuff and then look round to look who is laughing at what they have said (and this isn’t hypocrisy, I say stuff loud in the hope people will hear me and think I’m funny BUT I don’t look around to see if people are looking after I’ve said something).  It wasn’t very good stuff to start with either, crude stuff and they were much funnier on both the trip down and trip back when they had calmed down a bit and just started chatting and not trying to impress the cool-as-fuck lad on the back sit, whose laughter and nods they eagerly awaited – positive reaction from the handsome, bearded stranger with the mystical eyes was all they wanted.  Lads: I cant validate you, that can only come with being happy in your own skins. You’re trying to hard mes amigos, let it come naturally and you will reap its rewards.

Either that or they were completely sound from the start and  I was jealous of the fact that they were all canned up and I was jealous of choosing a relatively dry day. No, no – I would never be that petty.  It is clearly the young lads laughing and joking and trying to have a good time, on a day out, who were at fault.  They did all have their pants round their knees though.  Even though they seemed like proper manc indie lads, it would seem that it’s just how you where jeans now.  I don’t get it – it doesn’t even look comfortable.  It didn’t seem that long before we were at Watford Gap (it wasn’t that long that’s why).  I had managed to only have one homemade chocolate biscuit by this stage.  However, everyone piled in Wimpy so my resolve only lasted as long as 3 seconds after getting back on the coach.  I would love to blame Wimpy for it, but it was just an excuse.  To a one every one unsatisfied.  Is this what this has come to?  Grown men moaning about having paid six whole pounds for a burger the size of a pool ball ,23 poorly made fries and a small Fanta.  We have become spoiled by city centre restaurants offering very nice big burgers and fries for less than what Wimpy charge.  Shame on us, how dare we think “no wonder you can only find Wimpys in Service Stations and in backwards towns”.  How very dare we.

Next stop Wemberlee…it was heartening to see a river of gold and green around our nation’s stadium.  And when I say river I mean a lot of people wearing gold and green scarves in one place.  With some claret and blue ones mixed in.  Not the best river then.  A good old sing song was had outside the torch while we had a few cans.  I had somehow hurt my shoulder on Friday night (sleeping, the most dangerous of activities) so was careful not to raise my arms when getting involved in the revelry.  And when I say careful I mean careful like going to sleep in a foreign hotel and leaving your children not properly attended – each time the jolt of pain ran through me I thought “not again”.  The resolve didn’t last long.  Sadly neither did the cans of cider.  Although it was kick-off time is approaching time so it was time to head in.

For many United fans the best things in the stadium would have been the floods of green and gold; the incredulity of Nemanja not even getting a yellow card for a professional foul; Mick Owen’s superbly taken equaliser; a decent atmosphere; a good display by all the team; a cracking sing-song at half-time; Valencia showing he is growing into the shirt; Rooney coming on to show he is THE FUCKING MAN right now; the final whistle; the tropy lift…..Yeah I enjoyed them all but walking up the stairs on the way in, the sight of a man of about 50 stood in the middle of the stairwell with his penis in his hand pissing on to the steps with no shame takes some beating.  I really regret not getting a picture.  It’s not exactly Mount Olympus is the walk to the second tier at Wembley – the questions are obvious:  did he not need one before getting on the stairwell?  Could he seriously not hold out for another two minutes and the extensive toilet facilities?  If he was that desperate there and then might he not try and be and dignified as possible and go into the corner?  I mean the answer to all is clearly no – he pissed in the middle of loads of people walking up some stairs.  Almost certainly splashing some children.  Id like to think that in years to come a statue of this man, this – yes – hero might be erected outside Wembley to remind us that Wembley is not just about sporting greatness, the fulfilment of hours of training and dedication, a lifetime of dreams and moments of ecstasy.  It is also about a grown man getting that inebriated he will piss on some children.

Unsurprisingly the journey home was not as lively as the journey down.  Most people were catching some zeds.  The lads from earlier were buzzing with their achievement of not getting back into their seats until 20 minutes into the second half.  One was sick down himself.  And they all took a turns in saying how drunk they had been, and no-one was afraid to repeat themselves.  The compassion – to which I referred to earlier – was for the one I disliked the most.  He had earned my ire by being (what I call) full of shit.  He had been recounting what he would have done to the guys who tried breaking into his new flat – had he been there.  These guys were apparently looking for the previous occupant – a supplier of narcotics, and I don’t mean he was a Chemist, so they would clearly have been nothing special in the toughness department.  Not to this lad anyway, he would have fronted them up.  I think it was at this point they started to grow on me as one of them chose to point out that if this was the case, why didn’t he do anything when people started on him at school or on other occasions where being prepared to fight would result in…well having a fight. [The lad who pointed this out was becoming the best one – despite looking like a bit of a tit – he had a massive rant about this lad who they’d been at school with who now thought he was ‘nails’ because he was ‘pumped up’.  He did a big diatribe about how despite not being hard this lad now thought he was, because of his gym enhanced muscles.  Which was funny enough but it was given a coup-de-grace by the lad admitting that the lad would still be able to beat him because “I’m soft as shit though”].  Anyway, I’ve digressed, the annoying one it turns out had lost his wallet. A £200 one with a couple of hundred quid in it.  Who pays £200 for a wallet? [Him].

I think the alcohol dulled his reaction a little bit as he was annoyed, but didn’t seem like gutted.  He did a bit later after he’d had a sleep.  A little bit more sober he crawled around on his hands and knees seeing if it was on the floor of the coach. It wasn’t.  Seriously, I wouldn’t have a wallet that was worth more than the money I would ever have in it.  Unless Pretty Green make one maybe.

It did put a bit of a downer on the day though.  For him obviously.  I couldn’t give a fuck, really.  I was more annoyed at my inability to sleep on public transport and/or not bringing my ipod/earphones for my iphone.  That was topped off by my bus home from town and the single most tedious conversation I have ever overheard (note: I didn’t say been involved with there) between (admittedly both drunk) boy and girl talking about a mutual male friend who the lad thought fancied her and she didn’t.  Which was bad enough but the lad, who talked the most, said like like after like literally like every like other like word like and like I;m not like even like exaggerating about like how like much he said like like and he really did say “like like like”  a few times.  The Cock.

In summary – Carling Cup Champions 2010: Manchester United.