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SOUTHAMPTON AWAY 11-12-04
Written by Andy 'Never Mind Your Daughter!' Morgan
Photos by Andy Craig
Getting up in the darkness on a December 6.15am to fulfil the longest domestic away trip the Boro have does not inspire one with confidence, particularly after spending much of the preceding night writing stuff for and editing this very site. But I somehow managed to drag my corpulent frame out of my bed, have a quick shower, get to the train station and pray that whoever was sat next to me would be in some small way interesting.
Unfortunately not. God was mocking me on this last count and I had to endure the inane drone of a grandmother and boy talking about the Christmas shopping they were about to do in Oxford Street. Apparently John wants some trainers and if you want to know all about which MP3 players to buy for Christmas then I'm your man.
And tantilisingly close to me (about four seats in front) were two Boro fans talking football. And could I get out to speak to them? Could I buggery. I had to endure Ethel and Fatso talking about robotic head-lice or something. So I buried my head in an article about anti-depressants in The Times, which was rather ironic come to think of it.
We were ploughing on towards St. Mary's (or at least London) so I wasn't one to complain despite the conversation contributing to my increasing bouts of narcolepsy. Still I suppose it was good practice for the match itself, after all Southampton hardly play the most attractive football do they?
Having navigated the irritating branching of the Northern Line, I made my way towards Waterloo where I had agreed to rendezvous with Boro board favourite and snowman extraordinaire The Wizard of Smog. We were to catch the 11.30 to Southampton, calling at glamorous places such as Winchester and Woking. How lucky were we? This would take us to the city in plenty of time to catch the game.
Unfortunately the Wiz had spent the previous night dressed as a snowman and got up tremendously late, probably having lost his carrot as he made his drunken way home between his office and home so he was pushing it to get the train on time. I boarded anyway and hoped, although that hope was more directed towards the Wiz wearing his costume to the match rather than if he turned up or not. As it turned out, he did turn up (sans costume though) and we settled down to catch up on old times, or at least the two weeks since we last saw each other.
The journey was pretty uneventful, after discussing the beaver I ate in Lithuania (with plums as well- and no she wasn't an hermaphrodite...) and Boro's current form we found ourselves approaching Southampton. Looking out of the window we saw our first glimpse of St Mary's, sterile, unattractive, grey. A bit like Harry Redknapp in that respect then.
On arriving, we observed the Victory pub where we were to meet Billy Ashcroft and his lovely collection of astrochickens (no Oort cloud though) and headed towards the Wiz's inlaws where we were greeted with friendly conversation, cups of tea and the most gorgeous ham and English mustard sandwiches I have ever tasted. Certainly beat the traditional pre-match penis-and-lung-burger you normally get overcharged for at those dodgy vans that like a foxhunt in an allotment, invade the area and make a bloody mess before buggering off.
Having been fed and watered we were still somewhat parched and felt a stronger watering may be required. Thus we walked back into town and headed towards the ironically named Victory - although it did feel like one in the end - to meet Billy and Andy Craig.
A quick beer and a reminder that it was already 2.15 alerted us to the necessity to get to the ground. However we were still reasonably dry so a quick call into a local supermarket garnered us with a few bottles of beer to drink on the long walk to the stadium. In a moment of solidarity I suggested that we should play the lottery, each contributing 25p to the ticket. I wish I hadn't bothered as Billy started rabidly clucking about how the lottery was a 'tax on the stupid' and that it was 'impossible to win despite the odds actually being 14 million to one.' He didn't contribute. Thus we told him if we won he would be lucky to get two pence from me. He seemed quite happy with that.
As it turned out we didn't even get one number but hey, I feel happy I have supported a charity that supports lapine beastiophobes in the Arran community so surely we've all benefited in one way or another. Either way, we ignored Billy (who's real name is Bryan by the way) and Wiz did a lucky dip, for which I will now sue the computer for choosing the wrong numbers. Bastard.
The walk to the stadium is very much like the walk to the Riverside, without the delightful Middlehaven wasteland dump bit in the middle. Indeed it appears to be a combination of the walks to the Riverside and to Ayresome Park as to get to St. Mary's we dived through back streets and observed little shops selling all sort of bizarre ephemera. We were quite high at this point on the old alcohol and were looking round for anything to laugh at, and we duly found it with an intriguing restaurant 'T Bone and Spaghetti' to which Billy remarked: 'T Bone and Spaghetti- together at last!' Riotous laughter ensued. You probably had to be there.
We also spotted a shop that was (randomly) selling old Boro shirts and programmes which we tried to take a picture of for this site but the window was too dirty for it to come out properly. So we ignored it, walked on, drank our drinks and got ever closer to the ground.
The tension was building. We felt isolated, miles from home and insecure. But we needn't have worried as Southampton had tried to cater for us as much as possible. Thus walking over the bridge that crossed a railway line the reassuring smell of gas greeted us and we looked down to see an industrial utopia beneath us, a utopia based on gas taps and scrub-land. And we knew it was going to be our day, we knew we were going to be safe. This was enhanced as St. Mary's is one of those new grounds like the Riverside, devoid of any discernable feature or atmosphere, comfortably generic and contentedly dull. Shame in a way but that's how modern football seems to be going. Characterless, faceless. A bit like Southampton under Steve Wigley in many respects then...
Getting into the ground was easy and we made our way to our seats without fuss, the nerves building up ever more. We don't have a good record at Southampton and over the last week the media had been focused on Harry Redknapp's first game in charge, indeed it was like we weren't playing. But we weren't worried, indeed new managers and debut games against Boro seem to go hand in hand this season, what with Mark Hughes and Bryan Robson kicking off their new managerial posts against us. And we had come through both of those games with maximum points so why not this one? But there was something different, the media were intensely focused on this game, possibly due to Harry's controversial defection and thus there was a difference in feeling.
This was palpable throughout the stadium as the home fans saluted their saviour (they hope), injecting an energy in the side that had yet to be seen at St. Mary's this season. Indeed it worked. For the first 89 minutes anyway. Meanwhile all I was worried about was the stewards in front of us who courteously decided to stand right in front of us for the duration of the first half, resulting in our standing up in our seats. This of course had a knock-on effect and thus the whole block stood up. You see, that's how standing at matches starts, it's the damn stewards fault!
Boro kicked off and didn't attack towards their own fans in the first half, which is a turn up for the books I know. Indeed Boro didn't really attack much in the first half as the fluidity in the side was somewhat missing. We also conceded possession far too easily again in the midfield. Thus Southampton launched wave upon wave of attacks but due to the ineptitude of their strikers (c'mon, Crouch and Philips, match winners?) missed a series of half chances. Meanwhile Parlour and McMahon were becoming increasingly exposed on our right and you just knew it was a matter of time before Saints would score.
And they did. Beautiful pinpoint cross into the middle and Philips headed it past the stranded Schwarzer, who was unlucky not to get to a hand to it. Even Philips couldn't miss from there. His celebration was aimed at the Boro fans and involved him holding his nose and wafting his hand in front of it, probably because he had just followed through after he had shat himself in delight that he had actually scored. Still, Philips, we may be shit but not as half as shit as you and your motley crew of South Coast wankers, nor do we share a name with an illiterate grease monkey from Coronation Street either. So fuck you, you rat-faced fucking chav.
That was on the stroke of half time. It was a blow but we felt it coming. We had had a few chances that were snatched at but very little. On the balance of play it was fair. But fuck fairness.
Half time was spent soul searching and drinking, fearing our most humiliating defeat of the season. Second half and it got worse, the ever present Peter Crouch was winning everything in the air due to his being 11ft 3in and the fact that no one could be arsed to challenge him. It was no surprise that he scored after 64 minutes from another point blank header. Except with this one Schwarzer should have done better.
In response, McClaren had put on Nemeth and we suddenly started to look more threatening. Before the second goal Downing had a great opportunity saved by the impressive Niemi and with Hasselbaink hitting the post in the 73rd - the sound of which I can still place in my head - Boro were getting closer and closer. But not close enough. I had faith but at this point the Wiz felt that it just wasn't going to be our day. I accepted his sentiment but felt it was a cop-out excuse. If it's not going to be your day you have to make it your day.
Particularly because I knew that Southampton, fragile in confidence, would only need to concede to be rattled. Yet as the minutes rolled on we got more desperate, hoping we would score to at least salvage something. Another striker came on but in the end, we didn't score. Higginbotham did. And he should be inducted into the Boro hall of fame immediately for doing so.
What is it with crap Southampton players and scoring own goals for us. Lundekvam hilariously did that as well some years back in a 3-3 draw.
Downing's ball floated in from the corner and as usual he couldn't get it past the first man. He didn't need to. It cannoned off the hapless defender's head and nestled into the back of the net. The 89th minute. There was a chance of getting something. There was a chance and even Wiz now started to believe.
90th minute and the ball floated into the box. The shot was missed and hit a little girl in the face who started crying. Her dad let her throw the ball back in play as some form of comfort device whilst I shouted at him, telling him we only had two minutes left to score the equaliser and for him to get on with it. I know it was tough and to him I apologise. I was pumped on adrenaline and was hoping, in futility maybe, but hoping nonetheless. Then came the best equalising goal in the universe.
Throw in, gathered by Downing, and the Southampton defence back off. And back off. And back off some more as Downing runs with it towards the 18-yard box. We looked on in incredulity knowing he was going to hit it. The ball left his foot and we just knew. The net bulged. We couldn't believe it. Two goals down back to two all in three minutes.
Downing came over to celebrate with us as I vaulted over four rows of seats and towards the advertising hoardings at the front, bouncing with and hugging any random Boro fan who crossed my path. Yet my delirious momentum took me towards the pitch, which may have looked like I was trying to invade it. That wasn't my intention but I was told to go back to my seat rather forcefully by a female steward. I headed back and saw the Wiz and Billy hugging each other in manly happiness, with Wiz imitating belly-wobbling Santa laughs directed towards the Southampton crowd.
It was justice for their taunts and justice for Philips. His dejection made my day. As did that equaliser. But it could have been better, we could have had three. The ball launched in, Viduka hits it and it skims a few yards wide. It would have been unfair on Southampton but fuck fairness.
Three goals in four minutes would have been magical, but it wasn't to be. Yet to grab a draw from the jaws of defeat does show how strong we now are and how potent our attacking play is. That simply wouldn't have happened last year, as Lawro pointed out - probably the only time I have ever agreed with him.
The whistle blew and the Boro crowd erupted, singing on the terraces, down the stairs, in the toilets and on the concourses. Never has a 2-2 draw ever been greeted with such delirium. We were united in victory whilst the Saints fans were understandably distraught. We pissed all over Harry's party and that in itself was satisfying. But then what do you expect? Harry and Jim are managing crap...
Oh, and the journey back was more interesting as well, trying to discern what coated a fat girl's epiglottis as she was sleeping with her mouth open. Lovely.
Footnote: Congratulations to Southampton Football Club for presenting me with the worst pun I've ever heard in a football ground to support its commendable anti-racism campaign:
'Racism just isn't Saintly'
Still, at least I remember it and if it can achieve the desired affect due to this then no matter how bad it is, it is still worth a hell of a lot. After all, the sentiment is right, but God that pun is bad!
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