You’re So Dave, You Probably Think This Blog Is About You…..
…but you’re wrong*…..
So, football eh? Willian’s agent has hawked him around the Premier League like a Punjabi dad with an ugly daughter. Gareth Bale is keeping his head down (apart from being on every other bus shelter and those BT ads). Arsenal are trying to get so many old players back they may have to invent a time machine. And through it all the fans continue their relentless charge toward idiocy. A video is currently doing the rounds from some Spurs fans. The crimes compound on each other. OK, so making a video about your favourite team is acceptable I suppose. there are some pretty good montage efforts out there. This isn’t one of them. It features two (admittedly young) men. They are ‘singing’ a song. It’s by Blue. They have changed the lyrics to be uplifting messages of support to the club.
Unfortunately for them this involves stating that they don’t want to be in the Europa League. Well that’s a noble ambition, until you realise they replace what is effectively the UEFA Cup (a competition Spurs have won twice) with finishing in the top 4 (which Arsenal celebrate every year like they’ve done the fucking treble, but has no actual trophy to go with it). Add to that their declaration that ‘Ledley’s knee will survive’. What exactly? He’s retired. All it has to survive is a day being a club ambassador and a night in Faces. They’re wearing replica shirts too. It’s sickening.
Add in the planks who they’ve roped in to guest star in the video, and you’ve got an insight into the kind of berks who are currently infecting clubs with their gibberish. It’s this kind of nonsense that makes Spurs feel bold enough to charge SIXTY ONE POUNDS to sit in the East Lower to watch them against West Ham. That’s right, not Real Madrid in a Champions League quarter final, West Ham, a club that only exist to hate Spurs, Millwall, and Frank Lampard. And people will pay it too, that’s the tragic bit.
Compare and contrast this with the attitude of the hordes of Scotland fans who descended on London to watch their heroes at Wembley. I first became aware of their advance parties on the Monday. They caused tensions at the big railway stations. There was a turf war at Kings Cross, as all the resident tramps in their 1982 replica shirts felt put out thinking the early birds were muscling in on their patch. These were the hard core. they’d been waiting 14 years for this. I saw one who may as well have had “Ye think ye’re greeeeet but ye’re no” tattooed on his forehead wandering through Covent Garden. You could imagine him in a pub, striking up a conversation with one of the fin haired pointy shoed suburban mummy’s boys who think their dormitory town friends are impressed that they work ‘up West’.
“Y’all reet there wee man? I see ye’re havin’ one of them mincy seethrough drinks. I tek it ye’re no’ going to the fitba naw? Ah bet you work in that PEEEEE AAAAARE or whatever”
Jamie (they’re ALWAYS called Jamie) has already begun to struggle to control his ringpiece by now. This s a bit too ‘real’ for him. Big Tam is only being friendly though. It’s like when your mate’s boerbul starts humping your leg. Sometimes it’s best to fake an orgasm……
On Tuesday you could definitely get a sense of their numbers growing. This group were led by the middle aged men who came down in 1999, but were now hampered by teenaged sons defiantly wearing skinny jeans rather than kilts. Everyone looked uncomfortable. There was a lot more of a touristy vibe, with photos being taken and God awful tat being bought (London has the worst tourist crap of a major city in the world bar none). By all accounts pubs in WC2 were a bit more lively that night, but that was the calm before the storm….
On Wednesday central London went to DEFCON 1, with hordes of kilt clad meatheads pouring into the capital. The Co-op on the Strand is a 24 hour operation. I exited Charing Cross station at 8.20 a.m. and saw my first thirsty Scot piling into a 4 pack. Impressive. At lunchtime one worker complained that she had been on duty since 6 a.m. and was meant to have finished at 12, but had no idea when she would be able to leave. it seems that as the staff arrived from the stock room with trollies laden with more beer to replenish the shelves they were being accosted by people taking them straight to the tills. It showed no signs of abating. it now seemed that Scottish national dress involved a kilt, a replica shirt, a flag over one shoulder, and a 24 pack of cheap fizzy piss over the other. They weren’t animals though. They were eating too. Across the road Tesco had sold out of pork scratchings by midday…..
The numbers were now swelled by London based Scots. These were people called Crawford and Finlay; part time Jocks who only came alive when the 6 nations rolled round, for whom Easterhouse is just an old band, and had no idea why there’s an extra bank holiday north of the border for Hogmanay. You could tell them because they had hip flasks rather than beer, and took discreet nips whilst navigating to Trafalgar Square, where the action was. Fairy Liquid in the fountains was already turning the place into a foam party (nice touch), and people were clambering all over the first level of Nelson’s Column, and the lions (I’ve got up on one of the lions; it’s not as easy as it looks). As the drink flowed the atmosphere became more Salmondified (it’s a word, look it up). It just needed Mel Gibson to rock up with a loudhailer and vials full of skag to pass out.
According to the daily mail police were threatening to confiscate beer from anyone caught drinking in public. Accompanied by photos of lots of hammered Scots necking Carlsberg merrily in the street. Clearly filed by some mug from their desk because they’d have needed every man and woman in the Met out taking cans off people. Ridiculous. Mind you, science will tell you that a drinking culture will eventually need to be a toilet culture, and soon this was proved, ironically by a load of patrons of the Sherlock Holmes weeing on the Korean cultural centre nearby. Free hands across the ocean I suppose.
Anyway, the point of all this was that no matter what the result they were determined to actually enjoy the occasion. I’m sick of people who can only talk about how bad their team is. Sport is meant to be fun, and rather than making poxy videos and phoning TalkSPORT the Scottish fans were out there having a laugh despite the fact that their team is awful. Did a few play up? Certainly. But they more than made up for this by having a laugh, turning drinking into an Olympic sport, and bringing a bit of colour and excitement to town. They also scared the crap out of lots of tourists. you could see loads of them wandering about with expressions that said “What the hell is this? Where’s Hugh Grant? What language is that?” Heartwarming stuff, I think you’ll agree.
Please God the FA get this game on every other year. Then people down here might get the idea that your first job as a fan is to have fun. You never know, it might just catch on……
*trust me, to about five people this is hilarious
If you’ve enjoyed this please join me at @BAHAB2012 for more sweary opinionated crap. If you haven’t go to @piersmorgan to vent your displeasure……