No menu? Click here to reload SMBU smbu away reports, 2002-03 Notts County Wigan Bristol City Stockport County 30 Nov 2002 - Stockport County
Longsight market was being slapped about by the rainy wind, it was Saturday morning and carbon faces were peering into Greggs at staleness. Marching past the cashpoint sprinkled with revolver feedback onto the Stockport road you must always remember to never look back at the Bay Horse. I heard a tale told of a man who went into the Horse for a quick drink and was still stacking crates in the cellar three years later. There was no casket of Amontillado for him at the end of the day, just the punishing weight of brown ale and dry nuts.
The Stockport Road stretches south from Manchester like a sour artery. Each shop, business and pub is haunted by the past and scarred by the future. The bus stop was full of people stuffed with shopping already and so along with some others we were forced to front the offensive drizzle and sickening spray driven up by the fleet of Ford Orions that hurtled past, heading towards Levenshulme like diesel-driven moths to a damp glow.
The 142 seemed like it was being driven ruthlessly into an arctic grave, such was the condensation on the windows upstairs. A vomiting man on the back seat didn’t help the atmosphere. His Friday night was being splashed onto the seats and panes of glass at a German rate. People rolled their dice took their chances, no-one got covered but the author of the dance looked like he needed a nap as the bus droned into the town we would call Stockport for the rest of the day.
Like dogs chasing invisible meat we hunted for cash machines but as the brown water from on high continued to eat into our bitter faces, the only solution was cheap alcohol, and there is plenty of that in Stockport. Roll a two pence piece on the counter and you can take a bath in the optics at your leisure. The Dark Angel chose Guinness and so did the rest, luxuriating in dry seats and wet eyes. A man with one arm and a piece of skin that flapped like a dogs ears hanging out of a Landrover won big on a fruit machine that had been designed to guarantee victory. Except for the Dark Angel. He shovelled in coin after coin only to shake his (both good) arms in some kind of a rage. Still, in the land of one-armed bandits he remained something of a king.
Working out where the ground was was pointless. The rain was so heavy at this point that the whole of the north west of England was reversed. Scout leaders were visible on the streets burning maps while driving instructors pointed their cars towards meagre building societies and grinned inanely as the Vauxhall Nova’s engine came through the dashboard into their legs like pork pie through jelly.
We were later than a pickled baby and the idea of a taxi service in this town was presumably outlawed, along with belts and left arms. The flowing roads were treated therefore, to a monotonous run through the backstreets with the Dark Angel’s eyes hunting floodlights and Screech complaining of shin splints.
Hurtling roundabouts, traffic junctions and crossings we inched closer to Edgeley Park, which seemed to be suspended high in the clouds like some kind of offering to the rain God who was emptying his sores on us this wretched Saturday. With a glance to the type of digital watch that was worthwhile in the 1970s and is now found wrapped badly inside a Christmas cracker, Screech informed us all that there were but four minutes to kick-off.
A man thumbing leaflets to passers by outside the ground was eager to offload his sheets to us. The Dark Angel grabbed one and before the acid rain burned the crude typeface off the paper we saw that it was a National Front support-rousing epistle. The timewarp was complete. We were urged to isolate ourselves from everyone different and to try and turn the clock back, something that the people of Stockport don’t really need telling.
Grimy men in bulky hats forced us to hand over £16 for the privilege of missing the kick off though an injury to some home team icon meant that the Wycombe defence was in no danger of losing control at this point. This was the last time such a cocked-hat phrase could be offered.
Let’s not beat around the bush, Stockport are a very bad team. They are managed by Carlton Palmer, they have probably lost more games in the last 18 months than any other team in Britain, they were on a bad run coming into this game, their fans were depressed, the National Front were canvassing outside, the town seemed to be attracting water like some sort of biblical magnet, yet Wycombe were bent over and spanked at ease.
The team defended in the way that has become hideously common in the 2002-03 season. Ripped apart like a barbecue dog in a summer frenzy the players’ belief dropped straight away and for once even the head-in-the-sand supporters were near to turning. Cries of ‘Sanchez Out’ increased to record-high levels when County went two up. Had a third been plundered then the manager’s current love of away fans might have ended right there. Much more of this and the guns come out.
Of course, Wycombe came back in the second half. Stockport were terrified of losing the lead and sat back for huge spells, could Wycombe take advantage? No. The sight of Jonny Dixon on the pitch and Richard Harris on the bench was pleasing, though no-one fooled themselves – this wasn’t what the manager wanted. A few players came through the game with credit. Dixon, Craig Faulconbridge, Roger Johnson, Keith Ryan and Steve Brown, the rest looked broken, like our season surely is after this point. Apart from the relegation battle of course.
Wheeling away into the rain that burst through the floodlit sky at the end, a few of the faceless fawning mass of droning automatons countered cries for drastic changes with memories of that day at Villa Park. Fuck Villa Park, fuck the FA Cup, forget the past – what does it matter? Perhaps too many of the current team are living comfortably on the Cup Run that made them national heroes for a while. That won’t count for anything when the final league tables are drawn up in May. Look at Chesterfield, who went down in the second season after reaching the last four. It doesn’t take a genius to work out that this Wycombe team is sliding badly, groping its way down Division Two. People can live in the propaganda world of the official club statements or face what is actually happening in front of their lazy reeling eyes
Oily Sailor, November 2002
top 7 Sep 2002 - Drones, Clones and Mobile Phones...Wigan Away
The Thunderbirds were controlled from a remote location, as were troops in the Second World War, stern men with oiled moustaches sitting in dusty rooms pushing model tanks around like it was the world’s greatest ever military subbuteo game. Why am I barking this nonsense out like a pretty tramp trying to avoid arrest on a Friday night? Well, it is because I am sitting in the safety of London, (no blitz here Colonel!) while my brave lieutenants have clambered up north to see Wigan pump their skill potion into the Chairmen’s skimming blood. Frontline reporter is Air Marshall Dell Boy armed with a thermonuclear SMS unit and his own war-ravaged mind. We live in post-modern times. I don’t need to see the football to see what is going on. Let the dispatches begin…
Timeline: 09:47
Passed Villa Park – venue of the greatest day in history despite what Monkman says. Soon2b filled with armchair cunts that emerge 5 times a year as England fans
The first message of the day comes in. A clear reference to the 2001 FA Cup semi-final being greater than the day the club allowed some rugby club to share the pitch, despite what our esteemed chief executive (number of friends of his now employed by WWFC: 1,292 and rising) thinks. It is early in the morning and I am estimating Dell Boy’s rage levels to be low, sleepiness is calming his mind. But prod a tiger too many times and blood is sure to pour.
Timeline: 10:30
Sea of goons have arrived @ Stafford services like Viking hordes raping york! What are 2pm kick offs all about – they should be confined to tennis cunts @centre court
Ah, it seems like the coach-based Wycombe supporters have stopped off to buy a selection of magazines and run into our heroes. This could turn nasty. Let’s just hope the motorway police have been armed this morning. I am guessing that the hoon-Vikings that slashed their way into northern England 1600 years ago were more threatening than the scarf waving happy-crew Dell Boy is currently seeing – but who am I to make such a claim?
Timeline: 10:34
Fucking surrounded by blue! Having a quiet drink and two coaches pull up! Expecting Al the Munich any minute complete with replica red face
Oh dear – rage levels are creeping up like a cat stalking a rare bird. A cruel reference to Wycombe’s celebrity Manchester United supporter only serves to ram home to me the pain of watching Wycombe on the road (yeah yeah, easy for me to say sitting in my house drinking champagne and whistling – shut it).
Timeline: 10:58
Match build up at a low after finding out Cuntler scored for Reading against Warbury.
A bad omen for the day – Reading are being featured in The Sun’s eminently researched Striker cartoon. The person who writes it must be regretting his decision to relegate the club now. He has to learn the names of players he has never heard of. I feel for him, I really do. [Later in the day I am to find out that former Nantes striker Jamie Cureton also breached Warbury’s defence. Think of the children]
Timeline: 11:34
We’re up north, the storm clouds are gathering like wwfc board members at a free nosh up!
Our heroes have broken through the checkpoints and beaten the guards and are now deep in enemy territory. Grimy Mexicans trying to screech their way into death-row Texas don’t have it this hard. I can only sit here in my southern stronghold and imagine the horrific fear they are experiencing at the moment. Trust reliable, steady Dell Boy to try and laugh it off with a joke about the board. Sometimes he’s so brave I want to cry.
Timeline: 13:55
Pre game in front of home end mascot plus bird in doctor’s kit, some cunt in afro, a twat in Indian headdress and two pink ladies from grease dancing to steps!
A two-and-a-half hour gap between messages. I was idly flicking through the news channels to see if there had been some kind of terrorist incident which could have waylaid my contact with the Latic world but the frankly garbled nature of the latest message immediately indicates to me that our heroes have resorted to Mother Drink to try and get through the day. Dell Boy is painting pictures in my mind but he’s spilling quite a bit on the floor. Now I’m no expert but I bet there’s another message on the way soon. His fingers will be eager.
Timeline: 13:57
Good thing about the massive stand is it is eye level to the football. Doctor bird now doing cartwheels – I’ll let you do the analogy!
Ah – here we are. Yes, the booze has turned his mind into little more than a sewer as he ogles an innocent young girl going through her normal Saturday routine. I’ll let it pass because he’s such a fearless soldier but really, he should seek some kind of medical help. I hope she was tidy though.
Timeline: 14:01
I’m hammered. Ran into a Wigan mate before the game. Drones are singing “ooh aah Talia”
Well quite! Tell me something I don’t know “Dell Boy”. The booze has calmed his rage levels but he was always something of a loose cannon at Military school and if Wigan score an early goal then we could be snookered. I see, right? Ah, goal from McCulloch. Spare me the Cutter Sanchez. It’s going to be a long afternoon.
Timeline: 14:15
The empty spaces here at the JJB are around the same of a 16 year old ‘having a go’ on Jordan!
Frankly I don’t have a clue what this means. I am dealing with a deteriorating man. He’ll be asking me questions next.
Timeline: 14:24
Why is half the stadium red? LOL. Joe is beating his drum like he’s in the battle of Waterloo or something
I don’t know. Perhaps red seats were on special offer when they bought them? I am pleased that their colour is cheering our hero up though; as it looks like Wigan are well on top. Another war analogy from Dell Boy as well – anyone would think he had been reading The Sun on the way up to Wigan
Timeline: 14:48
No other excuse except ‘we were shite, I picked the wrong team and system and we gave them too much space’ I’m raging up!
Oh dear – Dell Boy’s fury is almost at room temperature now and Wycombe’s long ball tactical mastermind Lawrie Sanchez is getting the blame. I now regret telling him to take a handgun to the match. We could be seeing a Mark Chapman incident here. I wonder if Paul Jewell is looking like Yoko today. 2-0 down. Andy Liddell. Bollocks.
Timeline: 15:30
Sanchez pulled off the strangest sub in history. We’re getting pissed on both flanks, now small man up and lost currie in middle. What the fuck? Stewards cunts
I’m losing hope now. Well I didn’t really have much in the first place, we were always going to get thumped by Wigan but optimism is rarely not a tempting mistress. Seems like Sanchez has got the tactics dice out of their sticky plastic bag and is rolling them and hoping for some random luck. Play Taylor up front? I wouldn’t bet against it. Wonder what the stewards have done to fire up Dell Boy, been wretched, ugly, friendless power-crazed meddlers I expect. When will the FA do the right thing and ban them for grounds?
Timeline: 15:34
‘one roger Johnson’ has been reworded to, wait for it… ‘one magic johnson’ now that’s er, magic! We’ve gone 3-5-2
Yikes! Another roll of the tactics dice and we’re mirroring Barcelona – well sort of. Only the sort of mirrors you get on Scandinavian ferries – huge things that almost buckle as the ship is whipped senseless by the Norwegian winter. Wycombe’s defence? Yeah I thought so too.
Timeline: 15:57
The stark realisation of 3 up front dawns on the sea of goons including the armchair andy gray behind! About as knowledgeable as AG too
We’ve all been stuck next to the man (or even more upsetting – the woman) who barks out tactical insights like Old Yeller hunting down a bowl of water. Listen, score more than the opposition and you should be fine. Looks like Wigan have got the hang of this, Liddell wraps home his second and his side’s third to bundle the eager Latics back into first place. Wycombe skulk into mid table like an errant child caught climbing into the ape’s pit at the local zoo.
Timeline: 16:16
The burning question I can draw from today, not why three up, not why the piss poor subs, not even why hoofball – but why the red seats? It was like I was in Wales
The unbreakable optimism of the football fan is shining through. Dell Boy is right. The seats are a metaphor for the day - empty and out of place. Wycombe fans a long way home and confused by what they have experienced. Sometimes ducks cross the motorway and the traffic has to slow down. It rarely occurs to the drivers to plough into their beaked foes but sometimes this is the only way forward. Sanchez has ruffled our feathers.
Timeline: 21:25
Dell boys final thought. Sanchez job is safer than berti vogts. Thank God for Scotland! Where is the pub I need another beer!
Merry Scotland, dear merry Scotland. As we file into the liquor houses and ale parlours of England in honour of our booze-addled cousins we can take heart in the joyous truth that there are always people worse off than you. Like athletes at the Paralympics – sometimes we’re all winners.© oily sailor & Dell Boy – September 2002
top They said that Margaret Thatcher could survive on just four hours sleep, they claimed that EMI-hating Prince could make do with a mere two hours of rest per night but these tyrants and clowns mean nothing to me. I am shaking my legs like a wistful skier waiting at the top of a shining mountain with Europe’s media hungry for some sort of error or a world record. It is all or nothing in these 21st century times and the pressure can be too much.
Anyway, the truth is that I slide into the capital of the West Country with a head full of ideas but a lack of sleep. To go into details would be unladylike and I am nothing if not coy. Let’s just say that as the late summer sun clips off the top of the Mendip Hills I am seeing heroic goals in my mind. The ego says victory but the id says “careful son”.
Bristol is a glimmering mass beneath my steady feet. The ChairMen have snookered themselves into town and it is up to us to wave our limbs like epileptics in a firefight. Lawrie wants to hear our backing and By God we shall give it. This is a time for Christian Soldiers. I could do with a nap.
The ground is as red as ever. Football grounds absorb their team’s colours like a kitchen towel dipped into soup and Ashton Gate is no different. The luv-crew are nowhere to be seen – are they ever in town? We are the loyal footsoldiers marching into enemy territory and there can be little doubt the directors of each side are stark naked in an underground bunker making deals concerning the finishing league positions of the 2014-15 seasons. We are so powerless yet we go every week with our faces scrubbed and anecdotes bursting from our greedy mouths.
The game is an abortion of epic proportions. Bristol City are wildly too good for us and even the sight of cynical mercenary Mickey Bell lashing the ball into the net can barely raise a fury in the away end. People are mothering about future barbeques they might have, ooh is my Montego due for taxation? It damn well might be you know oh blast have they scored again? City sweep the ball around like a French exchange student playing Battleships and Wycombe are on the ropes, no, we’re beneath the rope.
To be fair, the West Country Giants are helped by the amount of room the Wycombe defence are giving them. “We need to be wary of MIKKY BELL and SCOTCH MURRIE” raged Sanchez before the game. Both players score, both are able to take press conferences during the second half without a player in vile yellow coming near them.
The some-say infamous deathsquad are at the pitch’s edge, nervous stewards scratching their boils as they contemplate what could only be a monumental pitch invasion. Think Gallipoli, think Carthage, just think of something. Wycombe stage a brief rally and test Phillips in the West Country Giants’ goal a few times. He is up to the task. He never wasn’t going to be.
As the deathsquad, the footsoldiers and the motherers file out into the juddering sunlight, happy Bristol heroes run to their loved ones and hug each other like little Tommy returning from the Somme with a gammy foot and a broken heart. The luv-crew are nowhere to be seen. Extending Sanchez’s contract? More than likely.
The walk to the town centre is quiet, broken by the sound of seagulls screeching their victory cry. They peck hungrily at the corpse of Wycombe’s 2002-03 campaign. Where is our Dr Frankenstein? The luv-crew better have some contingency plans, I’m telling you. I’m going to bed now and when I wake up…
Oily Sailor, August 2002
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Pre-season optimism should be classified as a Class A drug. It gets in your bloodstream and you cannot see, you are blinded by happiness and the euphoria flows through your ears like a swollen Czech river crashing through a medieval street. Every year you vow “no more” but come the start of August there is a drug dealer hanging round your street corner, whispering of new signings, new tactical systems and of a monstrous dream. You buy into it and the surge almost knocks you off your feet like a fat man rolling down a steep hill.
So it was that 800 or so Wycombe fans crept out of their holiday homes and caravans and danced a dirty dance of hope up the M1 to Nottingham. The City that had once housed the cartoon villain Sheriff would now play host to the likes of Beeks, Monkman and the rest of the luv-crew. The Knights Templar would have not been able to quell the optimism but they could have spoilt the pitch.
Meadow Lane is being renamed daily in 2002-03 so as to confuse the sweaty-fingered creditors at Notts and Wycombe arrived at the stadium on the day it became “The Rose West Foundation”. Was this to prove a horrific omen as the County became buried alive in their own back-yard? Sadly no, but there was macabre excitement to come.
The city was alive with cricket buffs, local hoods, pie-eyed tourists, loose women, tight ends, chain gangs and chairboys. The train station excreted Wycombe fans like an anorexic telesales girl and they marched down the ancient midland roads with their heads bobbing.
The plain and the eager were at the ground early to watch the Magpies youth team collect skin grafts from the pitch for charity while many others remained outside the stadium, jamming alcohol into their rapidly barking mouths.
Come kick-off time there were few surprises as the same old soldiers clambered onto the turf and assumed their battle stances. Neither side unleashed any laser-guided missiles but Sanchez prowled the touchline like an inflated tiger and the masses were at peace at half-time with the scores level.
The second half burst into life like a heron being injected with adrenalin. A Wycombe corner seemed like a moment to savour but County countered with a sickening punch and Marcel Cas swooned the ball past Martin Taylor like an Angel of Death. The meagre home support clapped energetically and the 2001-02 gloom that had driven many good men mad with rage enveloped them again. The minutes ticked by and it looked as if Sanchez would have to face the pistol-whipping of the damned.
But no. A cross from Currie was headed home by the salmon-like figure of Craig Faulconbridge and the pre-season hit showed it had one more narcotic surge left as the Wanderers faithful acclaimed what their yellow eyes had just seen. Faulconbridge was mobbed by the eager front-row fanatics and grown men hopped from one foot to the other as if their shoes had seen a documentary on Christopher Reeve.
The Wanderers support became split when hand-wringing worriers became uneasy at the sight of unadulterated joy. Such demonstrations go against the grain and how are you meant to keep up the repayments on house extensions, landscape gardening and minding your own business if you demonstrate your feelings in public? They want you to be like them, they really do. Think the same, do the same, want the same. They hanker after a hideous plain world. Perhaps that is why they enjoy Wycombe’s usual tactics.
The fans filed out, eager to return south, or go into a pub, or get wrecked, or go elsewhere. A point had been huckled from County and there were team problems that would need addressing in the future but for now, as the summer breeze tousled the hair of even the baldest of Wycombe supporters, hope remained a feeling in their hearts and not just a Northampton defender.
Oily Sailor, August 2002
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