England's number seventeen

Watford v Tottenham Hotspur

Saturday 28^th October

The day after WFC held on to a 2-1 victory over Hull, or 65 and a half hours before this match started, Spurs put 5 past MK Dons, England’s first franchise club, away at their hockey stadium. Defoe and Mido got a brace each and Keane got the other. So, just before coming to the Vic, Tottenham’s misfiring strikers (as a team, only Sheffield United have scored fewer) all get goals. Great. The draw the same night put us home to Newcastle in the next round of the Carling Cup, to be played 7^th November, a work night. I’m going to have to sort something out for that night and the Sheffield United game 3 weeks later, also on a Tuesday evening.

On Tuesday, Joss had the inspired idea that we could cycle to and from the stadium from his (mum’s) place. I thought I was supposed to be the genius. I’d noticed bike-stands near our turnstile, so that is what we did. The 10 minutes saved, however, was offset by the fact that we couldn’t really talk, though Joss was chatty again. For the second game in four days, we only got to our seats as the game kicked off. In the first half, Shittu was getting forward a lot and it was he who tipped a seemingly-too-long ball back from the touchline for Tommy Smith to blast over from 2 yards closer than Henderson last Saturday. Later, Young had what looked like a legitimate goal disallowed for offside, though the shot that hit the back of the net was not that good and I led a chant of “dodgy keeper” to Robinson, “England’s number 2”.

At half-time we looked for and caught up with my brother-in-law Matt and nephew (Joss’ cousin) Jake, but what stuck out before we got there was how many other people were meeting up. Since Curly hasn’t been there for the last 3 home games at least, our familiarity with faces is very limited, though the Sikh teenager in the front row stands out. My next task as a fair-weather-fan must surely be to ingratiate myself with some of the rest of the rookery. OK, it’s a goal. Like Bridget Jones, I shall set targets that I can measure. Non-related fans talked to: 0. Very Bad.

Spurs certainly had their chances, but it was Aaron Lennon, rather than the midweek goal-scorers, who seemed the most dangerous. Foster's saves earned him several more rounds of "England's number 1". Neither team was able to do what counts, though, and despite Rookery calls for Priskin to come on, Henderson (our villain of the season so far) saw out the 90 minutes. Another 0-0, but it moved us up a place to 17^th, as Sheffield United lost. If we finish in that position, the season is a success. I celebrated the fact that we played as well as we have this season (but didn’t win) by spending nearly £50 in the club shop. After the email reassuring me that all clothes were ethically manufactured, I felt like a T-shirt and a fleece; and if a cup found its way to the till, well so be it.

Stalking

Friday 28^th October

I got an email from the club today, confirming that I can buy their clothing without an ethical care in the world. Well, not quite that far. They didn’t say it was fairly traded, only that all suppliers were committed to ethical manufacturing processes and that the club questioned them about those processes and how most of them had “cool and spacious” working environments. Am I naïve to take them at their word? I’m not an investigative journalist after all. Still, if nothing else, it’s good to know that the club are at least bothered enough to answer such queries, and quickly too. However, my mail to the manager that included the poem never got me any feedback…

Jun and I met Faisel at the Tricycle tonight to watch a series of short plays about Darfur, called “how soon is never?” I am sure I don’t need to say that the title is a reference to the “never again” that followed genocide in Rwanda 12 years ago but is occurring under the Sudanese Government and its agents now. The plays had the lack of action and concern on the part of the west as a significant strand. Following some speeches in a discussion after the play, I’ve decided to write a couple of letters this weekend. Normally, I’m not a letter writer because it seems so pointless. The fact is, though, that apart from sending more money (which Jun is going to do), there’s no other way to get involved.

I’d taken Mark Thomas’ book for Faisel to read and he told me he’d seen him there. After the interval, coming back from a quick half across the road, Faisel collared him and got him to sign the copy. I am not a shy boy, but I ran away. I am worried that if Mr T. saw me again and also knew it was me who sent him an almost-funny-but-actually-a-bit-sad-and-probably-inaccurate email (which he replied to) last month about referencing his book in my dissertation, he might begin to think he had a stalker. F, Tim and I have seen him “on stage” many times over the last few years and have therefore heard some stuff more than once. We are all going to see him at the same venue next week. I’m concerned that having read the book, I have repeated the mistake and the show won’t be as compelling as otherwise. Mostly, I’m worried that, having turned first to his page in the weekly New Statesman for a significant period of time, I have unconsciously become his number 1 fan. Evidence now takes the form of the “Dear Robin, happy 37^th birthday” that Faisel got him to write inside the book I picked up brand new and cheap in the secondhand section of Waterstones. Mark, I will neither be sitting at the front nor waiting outside next Friday.

Shit, the last time I ended an entry with a promise, I broke it.

No slip-up at the Vic

Watford v Hull

Tuesday 24^th October

Watford’s biggest defeat of the season I started watching them was away at Hull but we beat them by the same 4-0 scoreline on our last match of that season and I haven’t seen us play them since. Tonight was a Carling Cup match that I told both Kerry and Joss on Saturday that I’d be taking him to so I wasn’t expecting my arrival at theirs to be a surprise. Joss, not long back from bowling 106 with the alley-rail up, said he didn’t want to go. Having walked the 30 minutes from the Junction, I wasn’t letting him off that easily. After a quick beer and a chat with Kerry, I left with Joss about twenty-past seven for the twenty minute walk to the ground. Joss was in a very chatty mood, even asking why I’d decided to become a vegetarian, though perhaps not so interested in the response. He was also happy to tell me that he would eat peas now and carrots and peppers too, provided they were cut small enough.

Z-Cars was playing as we walked past the 3^rd corner of the ground towards the crowd-less turnstiles and two minutes into our usual seats we were on our feet cheering an Ashley Young direct free-kick as it rolled down the back of the net. Sat opposite a less than 25% full Vicarage Road end watching a full-strength team playing well, it was 9 minutes into the second half that we saw Hungarian under-21 international Tomas Priskin score our second after picking up a bad back-pass. Henderson was guilty of another bad miss early on, though. Nick Barmby came on for them and scored an overhead kick that went under the vertically jumping Foster and they forced him to make 2 good saves after that. Nevertheless, we deserved our first win of the season, over a team at the bottom of the division below us. Tottenham will not be quaking.

When I got home and turned on Sky Sports News, the first image was Hammers boss Alan Pardew saying “we are at the bottom now, we need support” or some such and it sank in that they must have lost at League One Chesterfield. The odds on him being the first Premiership manager to go must have shortened somewhat. There is no schadenfreude though, I respect him and feel sorry for that once proud fanbase that their West Ham has become a feeder club of Argentine stars to the top-tier of the Premiership. That contrasts with the pure joy I got from seeing that Warnock’s Sheffield United had lost at home to Championship side Birmingham.

‘Low area enclosed by hills’ of hope

Charlton v Watford

Saturday 21^st October

I met Joss – predicting “a win or a draw” – just after one at Euston and we got on the Northern Line down to London Bridge. On the concourse I’d been asked by a fan, in his forties I’d say, what the best way to get there was so we chatted a bit. He was a silver member like me and hadn’t been able to go last week either. We sort of picked up another couple of teenagers too who asked if I knew where I was going at London Bridge. Got to platform 1 where a load of other fans were and then had to change to platform 4. A few fans got on the first train that pulled in and I magnanimously called them off. See, not all Londoners are unfriendly.

Soon we were looking out at Canary Wharf, the HSBC Tower and the Citigroup Centre – the UK’s three tallest buildings – on the Isle of Dogs as we looped south and east on an iron reflection of the run of the river. Joss pronounced our first stop “Lewis Ham” and after Blackheath we were at Charlton. The walk to the Valley was short and our end of the squat stadium – the site of which I’d been to with my dad for a 2-0 F.A. Cup 4^th Round victory in January 1984 when one of the terraces had subsided – was already about half full with half an hour before kick-off. Watford were wearing all-yellow, the first time I’ve seen them in yellow shorts.

Charlton are on a worse run than us but were a little better throughout a scrappy affair. Foster made a couple of excellent saves but our best opportunities were generally off target with the worst offender being Henderson, who blasted over from seven yards out. Hands met heads, not for the only time in the 90. Our fans were not as loud as they were when I was last at an away match, but that was at Anfield in a Carling Cup semi-final a couple of years back. Joss, however, was pretty enthusiastic and I think a combination of being higher up and having no screen to watch encouraged more concentration on the match. Nevertheless, Watford were awful really: Hameur Bouazza seemed less than a hundred per cent committed to challenge for the ball, whereas Shittu was so over-committed that he clattered into defending team mates more times than is funny…but we got a point. From a poor performance we got a satisfactory result. There’s hope in such mediocre equations.

At half-time I was surprised by an “old friend”, Vicki, whom I flirted with when we were both doing holiday work in Burger King in Watford fifteen years ago. She was in our stand with her Charlton-supporting boyfriend and had looked around and seen me. We agreed that it had been at least five years since we’d met but I did recently send her an email, not something I’m very conscientious about, with a link to a YouTube video I’m in, so it was easier for her to recognise me. Anyway, with a little catching up about family and mention of how many of Vicki’s friends have gone back to Watford to breed and rear young, it was a good time to talk.

After the match, Joss and I headed back to Euston and a waiting train for him and I called his dad, who was already at Watford Junction. I cycled home where Jun was cooking pasta and after that we went out to two “dos”. First, we went to say “good luck” to John, who’s driving off into Eastern Europe and Russia and then training it through Mongolia into China, where he’ll spend a couple of months before heading down to Australia and an MA. He’d arranged for us all to meet at the “Marquis of Granby”, the pub off Tottenham Court Road where Dylan Thomas used to hang out. I’ve been to a couple of other bars on Rathbone Street more than once but this was only the second time I’ve been in there and the first time was just over ten years ago, with John. I found out tonight that he’d “regularised” it with others present there.

Later, we got onto a Bakerloo Line tube - the noisiest route - from Oxford Circus and walked for ten minutes from Kensall Green station to the “William IV^th” on Harrow Road to join Tim and Cheneé for their engagement bash. Most of the usual (ex-)Stanton suspects were there and Faisel turned up too. I enjoyed myself sitting and talking all night though I had gone out with the intention of dancing a bit. We got a double-decker N18 back down Harrow Road and then a second night bus along Euston Road to Kings Cross, where I bought an Observer and confirmed that my hoarseness had been rewarded with Watford moving above West Ham on goals scored. At least Macclesfield (bottom of Division 2) haven’t got a win yet either.

Dispatches

Wednesday 18^th October

Jun and I cycled down Farringdon Road and over Blackfriars Bridge to meet a couple of friends at the London Studios on the South Bank. We queued (twice) for significantly more than an hour but made it into the studio for the filming of a Dispatches special: “Are Muslims a threat to free speech?” to be aired next Monday on Channel 4. We were shepherded up two flights of stairs, across a corridor and then down two flights. Jon Snow, the presenter, commented on the poor architectural planning before mauve lights swept down, Weakest Link style, to cue the debate.

Kenan Malik was the “advocate” for free speech, Imran Khan spoke against the motion. I think Khan did the slightly better job in sticking to his brief in what was not what I would describe as a debate erring on the philosophical. They took turns to ask questions to 6 guests: Abo Laaban, the Danish Muslim who “created the controversy” about the cartoons; Caroline Fourest, a French anti-racist, feminist and secularist editor who made the decision to republish them; Gijs Van de Westelaken, the producer of the murdered/assassinated Theo Van Gogh’s film, Submission; Ibrahim Mogra, the Chair of the Muslim Council of Britain; Taji Mustafa, the London representative of Hizb-ut-Tharir; and Shami Chakrabati, the Director of the civil liberties NGO, Liberty, wearer of the best footwear and the only “witness” familiar to me.

I found myself agreeing with points on all sides but it made no difference to my opinion. Westelaken argued that freedom of speech meant “within the boundaries of the law – it’s that simple” and my first laugh of the debate was stifled by the applause around me. Evidently, many people have more respect for the law (and the process of its production) than I do. “The law” – in the form of Blair’s government - has been trying seriously and sometimes succeeding in undermining our freedom of speech. Some might go so far as to call recent statements from Straw, et al a smokescreen. As was pointed out more than once tonight, it is minorities (Muslims are less than 3% if the UK population) that suffer first when freedoms are attacked.

I’d somehow got the impression that the debate was audience-led when I applied for the tickets but that was not the case. A few people were asked what they thought at the end of the debate and there were two audience votes on remote controls just like those at 1 versus 100 except with antennae rather than plugs. The first vote, about whether the host should show the cartoons, went 68% in favour of “yes” (it didn’t happen – presenter Snow read out a pre-prepared C4 statement). Given that the audience seemed keen to offend, it was a turnaround that the second vote – on whether Muslims are a threat to free speech – went 52%/48% with “no”.

The pedantry that is evident in my argument with my brother manifested itself tonight. After Snow took the result for the cartoon vote, he closed to adverts saying there had been an effort to make the studio audience “as representative a cross section of British society as possible” studio audience. Fortunately for my predisposition, he knew the younger of a mother-daughter pair in front of us. He came over and after an intro and a chat with them, I was able to bend his ear about the use of the term. He was graceful enough to acknowledge that I had a point and admitted he was just reading an autocue. He didn’t compliment my T-shirt though. One journalistic slip is within the error of margin for the old guard. Unfortunately, this was not the only inaccuracy in his text. Closing, and admitting that the result was a surprise, he read that this was a vote (paraphrasing) that illustrated a desire to curb free speech and that the “freedom from offence” was important). That’s certainly not what I voted for...I could’ve slammed the remote control down.

Anyway, regardless of his loose terminology, I feel cheated. I had been ready to speak and, when the obvious wisdom of my words was digested, speak some more on why the debate is untimely and why MPs should exercise more restraint given the hundreds of thousands of Muslims Bush and Blair are killing, how Islam is not monolithical, the interpretation of the Quran is patriarchal, why western women’s bodies are also the cultural site of sexism, how freedom to do something does not imply an obligation and also to question intentions surrounding what is “news”. I envisioned Jon Snow handing me the microphone and sitting back just smiling and nodding as the rest of the audience threw off everything they believed – political and/or religious – in order to embrace my words and declare me all-knowing. I saw the future: a rational atheist movement for the 21^st Century with me as its God, err, I mean inspiration.

Shut it down

Monday 16^th October

At 12 I cycled over to New Oxford Street from Queensway for “an action” around the Defence Export Services Organisation. Organised by Campaign Against the Arms Trade, the idea was to form a human chain around the building. About 250 people were said to have turned up and I saw a few familiar-ish faces but, though I’ve been a member for a few years, I only know one person’s name and I didn’t see her. Anyway, I stood around for an hour and held two women’s hands, with one of whom I made a joke (ok, I stole a Lenny Henry line) about it not meaning we were “sexually committed”. She blushed and told the guy next to her, whom she DID know…

DESO employs nearly 500 civil servants, headed by an arms industry executive, in the heart of the MoD to sell arms for companies and lobby for arms exports within government. As if the arms trade weren’t bad enough in itself, our taxes are being spent pushing arms to dodgy regimes and those in conflict. DESO doesn’t even have the defence of the state as its raison d’être: it is concerned solely with arms company sales and profits. No counterpart to DESO exists elsewhere within the British establishment: there are no civil servants running organisations trying to export food, medicine or even Scotch.

Mark Thomas, whose first book (about his “adventures” in the arms trade, “As used on the famous Nelson Mandela”) I’ve been reading ever since the night before I handed in my dissertation, turned up about 1.15 or so to gee up the activist pacifists/pacifist activists. It's the second time I've seen him at a protest. I said “alright” and he said he liked the T-shirt that I was wearing. He’s got that charm, ain’t he? The book’s a good intro to what’s wrong with the rules and laws surrounding the trade, Mark’s activities are well-described, but it is his similes that stand out – the one-liner from the stage stands up well in black and white. I recommend reading it but mostly I recommend getting involved with CAAT and writing to your MP to protest against DESO and help CAAT shut it down.

Watford: the family club

Arsenal v Watford

Saturday 14^th October

I think that the penultimate match I ever saw with my brother was in Watford’s first season in the old First Division. My Dad had had his first and last summer off the booze and done a fair bit of DIY around the house, including putting in some new windows, and I had helped. The outside loo had been knocked out and the kitchen of our terraced house grown as a result. We installed a shower instead of the bath and the toilet came inside and went upstairs. Well, ok, we bought a new toilet: the other one was relegated to a different type of dump. There was even new carpeting: the money Dad saved by not drinking showed we could probably have lived a bit better than we ever did. At some point following the summer it had been decided that we would have a “house-warning” party on the 27^th November 1982, more than 13 years after my parents had moved in.

So come the day, my dad took Trevor and I to Highbury to see Watford win 4-2 – Barnes got a couple – while my sisters Terese (as she was known then) and Kerry stayed at home to help Mum prepare for the arrival of her extended family: I don’t remember any of Dad’s side there. Our house was full of strangers – Walshes, mostly. There was singing but it was Trevor sitting on the gas-fire that sticks in my mind: he knocked it over and the carpet was briefly on fire. I ran and began to fill the washing-up bowl but it wasn’t needed; the gas got turned off and the problem was resolved.

I saw Trevor last Sunday for the first time since the funeral at the end of May. His 7 month old daughter, Kasey, is crawling now but had the sniffles when we were there. Then on Tuesday Sarah and he had to rush her to hospital after she had trouble with her little lungs. She even stopped breathing briefly and had to be resuscitated. The hospital kept her in Tuesday and Wednesday nights on drip-fed antibiotics for observation but we hope that’s the worst of it. It gave me an excuse to phone 3 times during the week, thus cementing the “back-to-normal” terms of the relationship after our disagreement in Terri’s (as she is known now) back garden after the ceremony.

Trevor, who claims now to be an Arsenal fan, though I am not sure how much he ever saw them, had stated his determination to wind me up and thought he could do so by racist language when chatting football. I didn’t let it go but he was getting more and more upset, not me. We all have pet hates: mine is people talking over me, his seems to be me. When he said that WFC would get £40 million from TV rights by going up to the premiership, my pedantry got the better of me and I told him to put £10 where his mouth was. Having read and kept a Guardian article about the breakdown of the sum being talked about, I knew that less than half of it was from TV. However, there was no telling Trevor, who by this time worked himself up into an apoplectic bouncing on the spot that stress and a combination of substances was fuelling.

I went off to play football with Joss, Teigan and Jake and their father, my brother-in-law, Matt. Joss and Jake won the first game 10-8. I think Trevor argued with Kerry and Sarah a bit then left for the Junction alone (not that far from the Cassiobury estate). We won the second game 1-0, which was abandoned when my aunt and uncle gave us a lift to the station too. I hadn’t seen or spoken to Trevor in the ensuing 4 months. Believe it or not, I took a photocopy of the article about the significance of winning “the richest football game on the planet” with me but now I shall just note the figures for posterity. Alright, alright, it’s one-upmanship and I am using this chance to settle a score because I felt I was owed an apology. Happy now?

Share of TV revenue	9.5	2.5
Payment for live TV games	2.5	0.75
Overseas TV income	6.5	0.5
Ticket sales/season tickets	24.0	10.0
Sponsorships	1.0	0.25
Individual club sponsorships	2.0	1.0
Perimeter advertising	1.25	0.75
Merchandising	1.0	0.5
Merit payments for pos in table	3.0	0.1
Total	50.75	16.35

If he really is a Gooner, Trevor got the latest laugh. Although we had a couple of chances, it sounds like our worst performance of the season so far: The Hornets went down 3-0 today, which puts our goal difference on a par with the other clubs around us at the bottom of the table. Charlton are at Fulham on Monday and could go above us. Then we play them at the Valley next Saturday. I got tickets. Any pity can be postponed.

I chatted with Terri online yesterday and she told me WFC had been offered another 3,000 tickets for today’s game but had turned them down. Can’t confirm that but if so…grrr. She also told me that she’s got 2 tickets in the Rookery too, about 30 rows behind us and to our left. Joss and I might get to meet up with Jake and one of his parents at the ground on the day of the Spurs game at the end of this month. It’ll all be happy families soon.

Shoots, doesn't score

Monday 9^th October

Zidane: The Movie

Watching Zidane sweat and spit his way around the Bernabéu looking more for space than for the ball was primarily an observation in mortality. It is the knowledge of his career you take in with you that informs its quality as art. It is not a film about football but it is not only the fact that it had a soundtrack and a few lines of Z’s thoughts subtitling the game that made it more interesting than watching England draw 0-0 with Macedonia on Saturday.

You know what the man can do but for the first half he is more like a slightly podgy dad arranging his bollocks, fouling his opponents, shouting “ey” and hunting in a pack: the alpha male on the decline. Even his gait included a habitual foot-dragging, which seemed almost limp-like in close up from behind. Then in the second, he made three long runs with the ball, the first of which, with a feint and a stepover, resulted in a short high cross that was headed in.

Therein lies team-sport greatness: the contributions beneficially change sufficient top-level games given the length of the career. There’s no doubt Z knows he has qualified for the adjective, though –unlike my definition – he has done it with a flourish. His interaction with teammates is minimal. Apart from calling for the ball, there seems little verbal communication. Towards the end of the match, with Real Madrid 2-1 up, Roberto Carlos’ comment or joke, whichever it was, provided the first surprise of the “portrait” with its effect on Z, who was still enjoying the exchange a minute later.

The film ends with Z sent off for jumping in hands-up after a foul on a team-mate. Like most of the rest of the reactions, it is impossible to say whether it was proportionate: we hardly see the football. The match has been reduced to 9 a side. The “subtitles” tell us that “magic is sometimes very close to nothing at all.” As Z walks off, he is applauded by fans and patted by management: a red-carded hero’s farewell. The art is given greater resonance because this game was filmed April 23^rd 2005, fourteen and a half months before his final match ended in similar circumstances. Nevertheless, it is the contrast with other events of the day (inevitable images of war and terror) around the world – in the half-time interval – that brings the greatest perspective to the sight/site of “the end of an era”.

Pity Me?

Thursday 5^th October

My failure to get the ticket stubs in the summer has left me with a silver membership that is insufficient to get me tickets for the Arsenal game (I phoned at 11am and they’d sold out on Tuesday – I don’t think the Gold members even got in there). The Emirates stadium, the nearest to our flat, seats 60,432 but the maximum allocation for away fans is 3,000, which Watford received. 1,800 “real” fans went up to Everton, 1,000+ to Bolton. Guess Arsenal is closer to home for all of us. I haven’t told Joss yet and regret repeatedly talking about it (though I’m not stupid enough to have promised anything).

This throws into a different light my prospects of making any of the London away games. Next Wednesday I’ll be phoning about Charlton tickets for the 21^st but expect a recorded message: “Sorry, mate, all gone. By the way, where were you when we were shit?” I can’t really fault the system – at least it’s not based on how much you pay – but self-interest defies and denies fair play with every fan, even the fair-weather-ones.

The fact is that in order to be able to go to away games next season I am going to have to get to some away ones this season. I’d like to claim that not being able to go to the Arsenal match is an indication that I am going to have trouble doing that: that I’m all vicious-circled up. However, that’d mean my commitment to the truth was as loose as my loyalty to my club. What it really means is that I won’t get to go to the big games and the London games I was hoping to. I’m sure tickets for Monday Dec 4^th at Manchester City or Jan 20^th at Villa will be available. But Chelsea and Man U? No. Tottenham or West Ham? Doubt it.

Squashed

Watford v Fulham

Monday 2^nd October

After work I had a squash match with Paul (Sheffield United/Leeds) and had told him we’d win 2-0 tonight before he won a mammoth game (19-17) and the match, to take him ahead of me overall for the first time. Cycled home and then, after a shower and a bite to eat, to Euston for the train. However, though I’d been allowed to on the Tuesday of the West Ham game, this time I was stopped from taking my bike on the packed commuter train and I had to take it back out and lock it up. Missed my planned train and had to request Phil come to pick me up. The roads were extra busy in Watford too so we didn’t get back to Kerry’s until about 7.15. I gave Joss “Asterix in Britain” and a couple of posters (one of the planets, one of life on earth) that I’d got from last week’s Guardian as a slightly belated birthday present (his main one, as I reiterated, is his season ticket). He told me about his other prezzies and the grand total of £120 he’d received. Ten pounds for every year in Watford.

Phil then gave us a lift to the hospital (that’s the point on Vicarage Road where you have to turn left down Harwoods Road – where I was brought up – on match days) and getting out of the car I had a message from the Aussie couple saying they were at Pinner and could I leave the tickets somewhere and they’d pay me afterwards. So, I asked the guy at the “Burger Grill” to hold onto them until they turned up and felt I had to buy Joss something as a sort of thank-you for the favour. A double Cheeseburger cost me £4.50, and walking round the ground it struck me that Joss had not thanked me for the birthday presents or the burger. Maybe it was the combination of being knackered from squash, getting to Watford late and the hassle with the tickets but I was pissed off. After I bought two programmes and while Joss was still eating the enormous mound of processed-flesh-in-a-bun, I pointed it out. He thanked me then. When he finished the meal and I handed him a programme, he took it without a word. Obviously, I mentioned it again.

Chatting about the game, Joss also came up with 2-0 as a score. Heidar Helguson, Watford’s top scorer for a couple of years who was sold to Fulham for £1.3 million before last season, was given a genuinely warm welcome and kick-off was minutes after we got in. The Rookery was in exceptionally good voice, though Curly was missing, and there was a guy to my left for the first time this season but still other empty seats in our row and around. The first part of the first half was pretty scrappy, with the ball up in the air far too much and Fulham generally winning it with their heads in defence. Zac Knight, their 7-foot defender, was all over Marlon King even though he should’ve been able to win the ball in the air without holding King down. Mike Riley was giving us nothing and the first time we got a free kick, after about 20 mins, we celebrated like we’d scored. Not that long afterwards, we did. Marlon beat the offside trap and though he was slipping and looked like he’d fall, he managed to knock it to Niemi’s left and in. His 100^th career goal. Yeehaah.

That’s how it stayed till half time and we stayed in our seats and saw two co-Rookery enders win 4-year season tickets in some draw. Lucky sods. Fulham kicked off the second half and within 12 seconds (with no exaggeration – unlike the Zac Knight height figure) a cross went across their box, the bloke next to me said “2-0” and Young proved him right. I gave him a good thump on the back before jumping up and down with Joss as per usual (when we score). Heidar had a chance within 10 minutes but Ben Foster got down low and fast and held it. Two chants ensued: “England’s Number One” (the Man Utd goalie in his second season on loan with us has been called up for the England squad) and “You should’ve stayed with Watford” to H. By this time Joss and I were rather self-congratulatorily proclaiming we’d been right. I was even considering trying to get a “3 points to the Golden Boys” chant going.

There was a bit of hassle up the other end and we used the pause to serenade Foster again. He turned and acknowledged us to a cheer. A couple of minutes later, though, he dropped a cross under pressure and the ball was in the back of the net. My neighbour and I agreed that we were lucky to get a free-kick for a push on him. Nevertheless, after a Fulham substitution, they pulled one back with 20 minutes to go and you could feel the collective nerves jangle. Another Fulham change, five more minutes of pressure, a Foster slip and the ball is in the back of our net again. H has done it on his return (the law of the ex-player: that they’ll always score against you but yours will never score against their old club).

The free newspaper I picked up going into Euston (the first time tonight) had an article on WFC that referred to the ‘secret’ team-building exercise that the Horns went on last week. In the meantime, the boss has been talking about how we are due to put a few past someone soon. Sheffield United beat Middlesbrough on Saturday to leave us as the only Premiership team without a win and now we’ve lost a 2-0 lead. A few heads seem to go down and players are shouting at each other. Some of the fans at our end try to rally the team but… A few minutes later, another scrappy goalmouth scramble and H puts pressure on Francis after Foster fails to collect a ball and he pokes it into his own net in front of us. All around me, fans start to leave. We kick off for the third time in the half. Alone, I am shouting “Yellow Army”. Alone. Five ,six shouts. Alone. The players seem to gee up a bit, though (unrelated to my shouting) and I see the ball drop to Young. It’s a straight line from me to him and on to an empty section of the Fulham goal. As he connects, I am up and cheering first. It’s in. We’ve pulled it back. Well, we’ve thrown it away and then pulled it back. 3-3 final score. A game that some of us saw as an early 6-pointer ends as a 2-pointer. Three points would’ve taken us from 19^th to 15^th and been a big relief before the international break. One point doesn’t change our position second bottom to Charlton, who we visit after the game at Arsenal on 14^th.

We trudge out. Mine is one of the many heads in yellow shirts shaking in disbelieving unison. When Joss and I meet Steve and Tamara, who haven’t got the money for the tickets, she says it was an exciting game. “For the neutral,” I add. Hoarse and tired, I try to make a semblance of small talk as we wander down Harwoods Road on the look-out for a cash machine. The first newsagent has one but it’s out of order. Fitting. Joss and I walk ten minutes out of our way but we have to accept that it’s not going to happen. I direct them to the Junction (they’d come on the Metropolitan Line – a journey about an hour longer – which is why they were so late) and they promise to catch up with me in London over the coming days. Joss and I turn around and head back to Kerry’s. We talk about his birthday Playstation2 game and I ask him about his Spanish and try to teach him a few phrases. When we get in Kerry makes me another cuppa but I am too tired to be interesting. Phil gives me my third lift of the evening and I get home about 5 hours after I left.

My body is knackered but my mind doesn’t let me sleep properly. I am a Frustrated, Exasperated, Disappointed – Upset, Pissed-off fair-weather-fan.

Money, it's a gas...

Sunday 1^st October

On Thursday Watford announced a £32.5 million redevelopment of the Vicarage Road stadium, which means tearing down the condemned East Stand that has been standing half-empty for the home games this season. It will increase the capacity to about 22,500 and the dressing rooms will be relocated into the southwestern corner, which is where we enter at the moment. More than half the money is coming from “affordable housing provider”, Origin, as the redevelopment will include a number of homes for key workers at the hospital next door, which is where, back in 1969, I made my first entrance and where Joss did too, 12 years ago yesterday.

Last week’s 3^rd round draw for the Carling Cup saw Hull being invited to take us on at the unreconstructed Vic in the week of my half-term, which means I won’t be working that Tuesday evening. Hopefully, a little cup run will be good for us, though in Betty’s email this week, he responded to “a number of emails and letters from fans expressing their feelings that I had either not taken the competition seriously or that I should have played a full-strength team” (isn’t that the same thing, rather than an “either/or”?). Anyway, he went on to say that he wants to win “the Carling Cup, the FA Cup, the Premier League and the Eurovision Song Contest this year”.

I would not normally question Betty’s motivation but if we are focusing on the Eurovision Song Contest, will we really have two eyes on the Premiership? Not just that, but considering the quality of football pop songs, can we even expect to get more points than we already have in the league? (At least we’d beat Jemini’s total of 2003.) Maybe if club life-president Elton John wrote the track? Perhaps Watford old-boy John Barnes could be persuaded to get involved…Ahh, nostalgia is dangerous.

Elton, whom I spoke to as a kid at a few games and who is a “very very nice man”, has already done loads for us, not least putting on a concert in June last year at the ground, the proceeds of which helped us buy back the freehold for the Vic. That was the second of Graham Simpson’s, the current chairman, three aims when he took over in 2002. The collapse of the ITV Digital deal left lots of clubs like Watford in financial difficulties and deferring payments to staff (the first of his aims was to pay that back). The East Stand was the third priority.

This all leaves me wondering what the current majority shareholder, Lord Michael Ashcroft (billionaire) KCMG is doing for us. When I heard a major Tory party donor and UK tax-dodger was buying 42% of the club, my second thought was that we might at least see a little philanthropy. (My first thought included a lot of bad words.) After all, 6 months ago he was named by the party of Little Englanders during the “Cash for Peerages” scandal (he loaned them £3.6 million) so he obviously has a few quid to “bung” around...

In his time, Elton made interest-free loans to the club. In the publicity surrounding the redevelopment, I don’t see any mention of Mr. Number 66 on the Times Rich List offering any such deals (funding comes “through a combination of sensible long-term bank loans and/or equity”). Methinks the “Baron of Belize” is at WFC to see what he can get (ask not what you can do for your club, but only what your club can do for you). Does anyone seriously expect anything else these days? I really have to deal with this whole nostalgia thing.