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BLACKBURN AWAY 16-10-04
Written by Packwolf
'Anyone fancy some bear sex?' a furry figure growled towards no one in particular, probably a little too enthusiastically for most people's tastes. He looked around hopefully for a few seconds, sizing up his clientele, before turning round to address the barmaid, the bringer of beer. The chicken was the next one to enter through the door.
Travelling to Blackburn from anywhere is never easy, although whether that's simply due to geography or the psychological trauma induced by the knowledge that you are going to one of the north-west's more salubrious suburbs continues to elude me. This time however, the journey was slightly more daunting as it would be the first time I would be going to an away match on my own, my mates being too impoverished to make the trip. But I needn't have worried. At York station I was greeted to choruses of 'Come on Boro' by some fellow fans and the deadlock had already been breached. I felt I was with allies.
This atmosphere continued for the rest of the two-hour trip, a trip that made a mockery of the word 'express' in the train operator's name. Various northern shitholes passed, Garforth, Leeds, Bradford, the years rolling back with every station we passed. And then things turned nasty. The songs had continued from York, getting louder and louder as we got closer to our destination, the excitement, as well as the lager, welling up inside us and inducing the stirring and poetic sounds of Gregorian chant for the football supporter. Beautiful, stirring and ultimately pointless when you're sat in Burnley. But nevermind. The atmosphere was good-natured, although the two Blackburn fans who had got on the train at Leeds were somewhat overwhelmed by it all, preferring a quiescence that was quickly picked up by the travelling Boro faithful. All seven of us. It was about this time, after we convinced ourselves that they weren't Arsenal fans who had got on the wrong train, that the puny figure of the conductor with his officious ticket machine loomed in the doorway, not looking best pleased. In a rude and somewhat abrupt manner he told us to be quiet, although in all fairness he did give us the opportunity to be treat like the Queen if we continued singing- i.e. we would get a police escort off the train. I was going to ask whether there would be a red carpet on the platform but I thought I'd better not push my luck. After all I had the wrong hat for all that meeting and greeting stuff. Anyway, we quite liked this idea so we ignored him and continued singing. He was back within two minutes.
'I tould ya t'shu oop' he slurred through his Yorkshire accent, 'I kun ge' 'alf o' Lancashir police on the st'ay-chun to 'eh-scor yer erf'. This made me wonder what Lancashire police do the rest of the time when they don't have to deal with people singing but again I didn't chance it. We thanked him for his hospitality, resolving not to sing until we got passed Accrington, the stop before Blackburn so his threats to chuck us off the train would become superfluous. Either that or he would have thrown us out of the windows as the train was moving but I'm sure we could have taken him. Or something like that anyway.
At Blackburn and the release was palpable. Like a celibate monk's first wank in twenty years. Screaming, singing, intimidating old ladies, we behaved like the young criminals we were, torching and setting light to things and beating up anyone who looked at us funny. Or maybe we just sang a few songs and got a taxi to the stadium, a taxi that drove us down the ironically named A666. Indeed the fact that the A666 connects Bolton with Blackburn has always amused me despite it presenting the imperative problem over which end is Hell. On Saturday however I may have resolved this because for us Ewood Park was certain heavenly so by process of elimination I would guess it's probably Bolton. Plus I can imagine Sam Allardyce as the working man's Beelzebub, continually toasting Mike Riley on the flames of Hell for daring to allow Zenden's botched penalty in that famous Cup Final victory. Still, the shrink says I will stop having this recurring vision once the tablets take effect and I can only hope they do because they've grabbed hold of my bowels and they certainly don't like it.
The good thing about going to Blackburn is that 'Lancashir Police' have seen it wise to delegate a pub exclusively for away fans, probably because they can then get away with charging two pounds fifty for a pint of distilled piss. Or Carling as it's more commonly called. There are advantages and disadvantages to this system; it does create an atmosphere that is more fraternal and tribal, allowing fellow fans to talk freely with each other but then there is none of the pre-match banter you can sometimes get with the home fans. Still you take your choice I suppose. And standing in the centre of the pub with a few of the guys I met on the train, serenading the televised Birmingham City versus Manchester United match with a chorus of Boro songs for the best part of an hour and a half, none of that seemed to matter. Indeed I am sure that kind of atmosphere is what they deeply crave down at St. Andrews. Plus we must have scared the Man Utd players into playing so badly that they only got a draw.
It was around this point (with the aid of creative licence) that my attention was distracted by two different sets of people. The first were wearing white smog suits and sombreros. This is because a few weeks previously, a man called the Boro Bipper pestered us relentlessly about the need to wear a sombrero for this match, oblivious to the fact that sombreros are Mexican and that Mexico isn't in Europe. Unless you are American of course. But hey, they speak Spanish, and so do Villarreal so that's okay. And after all we couldn't take bulls and swords into the ground could we, as we all know bulls are in that list of things 'Not allowed into the ground' that adorn the turnstiles of every football club you see. Anyway, in a fit of, erm, drunkenness, I thought I'd try and root out the Boro Bipper and so made my way over to a group of men looking more like people going to a fancy dress party on a SAGA holiday cruise than a football match. But before I got there I caught our figure in brown strolling through the pub door and I was perplexed. I had to find out what possessed him to dress as the bastard child of Winnie the Pooh to a football match. So I walked over, my eyes transfixed and it was at this point the bear sex question reared its ursine head. It was also at this point that he had taken his head off.
Bearboy was followed by a multitude of other characters, Ali G, Superman, a chicken, Tigger and a miscellaneous (you always get one don't you?) all perplexing the faithful yet determined to try and integrate with society. 'Is it because I is black?' I heard in the distance as a buoyant Mr G noticed I was staring at him in rabid confusion. I didn't know what to say. What can you say when you are confronted with a man with a fake beard and dressed in yellow PVC whose best friends are an aging superhero ('Hernia man' anyone?) and a piece of poultry that was so pathetic it could fit in quite nicely at a Latvian market? So, without thinking, I said the most logical thing that came into my head, 'Erm, Are you that Fathers for Justice lot?' I quickly realised my mistake- that coming from the Boro and being considerably over the age of twelve did not qualify them for fatherhood (joke folks!) and that, being in their thirties, they may be great-grandfathers for justice or something. But I didn't push it. Anyway, they convinced me that they weren't, that it was for someone's stag do and that they were hot, sweaty and somewhat regretting their stupidity. I personally thought it was great. But then it's always good to get a bit of fur on a Saturday afternoon isn't it?
After that and a suspicious looking cheeseburger bought from a van (DISPROVING the Boro cheese theory come to think of it), I didn't think the match could eclipse it. But it did. And how it did! However the authorities at Blackburn must have been told of my being on my own as there was no one in front of me, nor to the side of me on my aisle seat, and someone behind me who was persistently annoyed with my continual standing and shouting. At half time however one of the guys I had met on the train saw my plight and when he said there was no one next to him, I sneaked round and sat with him. Within a minute, we had scored. But back to the first half. Tepid is the best way to describe it, both sides cancelled each other out and much of the game was in the midfield, indeed the only shot I can remember is Downing's and that was towards the end of the half. Tugay deserved to go too, despite the claims of many of the tabloid newspaper's the day after. He should have learned from our own Queudrue in the UEFA cup- silly handball for your first yellow is guaranteed to lead to a sending off, it's practically in the UEFA Rulebook and Saturday was no exception. And what Tugay was thinking sliding into Mendieta when he was already on a yellow, with a challenge that deserved a straight red in itself is beyond me. So I have no sympathy. And now the balance of power was shifted in our favour. And we took full advantage. Although no one thought it would come so quickly.
Hats off to Steve McClaren and his tactics although why he didn't employ a more attacking policy from the start is beyond me, against a team containing no one whatsoever who really frightens or even concerns you. But still, with Tugay off and our formation more positive it felt a mere matter of time before we scored. As it turned out, it was only 60 seconds. As soon as the pass from Downing split the defence and Hasselbaink latched on to it, you knew he was going to score. It seemed like an eternity, first one way, then the other and wham! One-nil! Get in there! Yes! Now we had the advantage, we had to hold on to it. Yet we didn't just hold on to it. We had to double it. And double it almost immediately. And it was Boateng who (finally) got his first ever goal for the club. It had been coming for a while as McClaren's attacking policy favours the forward movement of the defensive midfield players, a situation that is enhanced by the role of Parlour which absolves some of the defensive responsibility from Boateng, allowing him to go forward more often. And he had been getting ever closer in recent games. This game was his just reward. He thoroughly deserved his goal. And then my phone beeped. It was The Wizard of Smog telling me it was 2-0. Thanks for that mate, I was there, I was aware of it but I appreciate your instant match text alerts. They're a hell of a lot more instant than the ones the club rip you off for anyway.
Six minutes in and the game was won, if we needed convincing anyway. Hasselbaink's second and Boro's third. At which point me and my new found mate ran from where we were in row 4 to celebrate with the kids, bouncing up and down at the front barrier saluting our new found saviour. Ten minutes later and amidst choruses of 'we can see you sneaking out' Blackburn notched a response only for it to be ruled out correctly for offside. And by the time we had scored our fourth and Jimmy had provided us with our first hat-trick since March 1997 the stadium was largely desolate apart from the pocket of away fans who saluted the team and this most magnificent of away performances. We were again down the front this time, the craving for fame extending to the hope of a one second clip on Match of the Day. The bastards didn't rise to it. Taking breath and our aching voices away from the ground, we went back to the pub for some more well-earned beer, only to be confronted by a posse (I prefer sluttery but apparently it's non-PC) of 14 year old girls who did not take too kindly to our pro-Boro songs. We brushed off their insults in the mirth of another fantastic victory and now it's onwards into Greece and then to the delights of Pompey, and on the performance today, we should go into both in the most supreme of confidences.
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