I always liked a list posting from Maggie Barber, me. (Found this whilst
doing my due diligence for the thing on 7th July)
Betty
From: VBORMC::"[email protected]" "Nigel Barber" 25-MAR-1996
12:06:53.08
To: Leeds United Fan List <[email protected]>
Subj: LU: Sunday sorrow
FALLING OFF THE EDGE OF THE FOOTBALL WORLD
How well the day had started. After a great weekend in Bridlington
(implausible as that sounds) we set off for London to the screechy sounds
of "Marching on together" on the cheapo car stereo. The journey was
interrupted by a visit to see my travelling companion's greyhound for a
lucky pat as the dog had convincingly won its race on the previous night.
The M1 had been transformed into a white, gold and blue linear party.
Every car, van and coach got the thumbs up or the Leeds elbow, with an
obliggato of car horn in A flat minor.
On arrival at Neasden, we entered the nearest pub and I asked the question,
"I wonder if they let you in with colours on in here?". I never heard my
friend's reply, as it was drowned out by a deafening rendition of the Munich
song. Colours, in this pub at least, actually seemed compulsory.
The atmosphere in the boozer was intense. Three brave villa fans provided
the focus for about one hundred drunken Yorkshiremen and women. The brummies
were good sports and made as much noise as their meagre numbers would allow
(right next to my right earhole, as it happened).
The singing (if it can be called that) continued on the tube to Wembley
Park. The carriages bounced on the tracks, as dozens of beer and burger
fuelled bodies wobbled their paunches to get in the mood.
The walk up to the twin towers (covered in scaffolding) was less than
impressive. The stench of fetid police horse piss and cheap fast food
assaulted the nostrils as the crowds made their way up the concrete
concourse. Poor, ticketless souls lined the way, with sad homemade signs
that read, "Ticket wanted", although you expected something more like,
"Homeless, wife and family to feed".
We all bought a program and, to a Yorkshiremen, complained bitterly at
the outrageous price of a fiver. Elasticity of demand in full opportunistic
action.
Once inside the place, I realised why people criticise it so heavily.
There seemed to be a ratio of one toilet to twenty shops - you don't make
money from people spending a penny. To me, Wembley had more of an air of
a dilapidated train station than "The cathedral of English football" (Tm).
On taking my seat, I was pleasantly surprised by the quality of the view
and the atmosphere was being stoked up to fever pitch by the Radio Leeds
nutcase Bryn Law. The occasion was definitely getting to me, I even booed
Virginia Bottomley with the gusto of a life-long socialist.
Sadly, some dozy bastards decided to play a game of football and ruin the
whole day. Villa rose magnificently to the occasion while Leeds' challenge
remained embarrassingly flaccid.
Almost to a man, the midlanders were superior. Brian Little has done a great
job. They defended with an assurance that gave confidence to the entire
team.
The midfield ran and moved the ball around with consummate skill and the
forwards were a constant threat. In contrast, our defence was hesitant and
had trouble passing the ball, the midfield was ponderous and error-prone
and the attack were not getting a sniff from the Villa back men.
I'll let the newswire material fill in the details, the memories are just
too painful.
Not unsurprisingly, we did not hang around to see the medals dished out
and left to rejoin the M1, which was now transformed into a linear wake.
The first eighty, or so, miles passed with us sat in abject silence.
On getting back to my house, which felt even colder than usual, I decided
that more punishment was the order of the day and watched the entire match
again on video. This actually cheered me up, as the TV coverage actually
flattered the men in white, as the cameras simply cannot pick up the shape
and movement (or lack of it in our case) of the teams.
After that I went to bed and, like thousands of other Whites the world over,
I cried myself to sleep.
Yours,
Nigel Barber.
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The Rev, John Lee. Now spinning the platters in the holy discotheque of the
real man. Yorkshireman. May that lucky pizza and a bottle of Grolsch be waiting
for you with the Celestial Lards R.I.P.
