Taking two Hammers with me to the game required a warning in order that they couldn’t throw any victory in my face (in the ground at least).After a couple of pints in Watford’s Wetherspoons, we met Joss inside and settled down to Gianfranco Zola’s first English cup game as a manager. The Horns have injuries aplenty, meaning starts for Ross Jenkins, Jordan Parkes, Al Bangura, Lionel Ainsowrth and Scott Loach (who impressed on Saturday). The Irons’ defence was pretty much first choice but they had a few squad players on show too.
Not long after we’d got there, Loach held on to a shot well when there were West Ham players following up but the first of many references to Saturday’s events (eventually given as a John Eustace own goal) was when Ainsworth shot wide and we started singing “1-0 to the Golden Boys”: anything that went even vaguely close was celebrated as a goal by someone today. “The goal that never was” has made worldwide sports news, the first time we’ve managed that for quite a while.
With such inspiration, the fans shouted the team on and the eleven on the pitch played well against a more than competent (but less than inspired) West Ham, who had their own chances in a game mostly played out in the middle of the field. The drink motivated me to raise my voice a little more than usual, affording me approving glances (from kids, I admit) in what I thought was the absence of our main cheerleader (until I saw him sitting in a different place a little later).
Again the litany was sung in its entirety though I found myself spluttering solo through some lines of our most basic chants. With twenty minutes to go, Tommy Smith crossed and a deflection off one of their defenders put us in front, a fact I made sure Tim was fully aware of. Despite having to sing “We’ve only got ten men” when Jay Demerit limped off with seven or eight minutes left, WFC held on to move into the last sixteen and a game I’ll be in Japan for. Only one match left for me.
Taking an old computer up to Sarah’s house meant catching a train to Bushey and going back to Carpenders Park, the first part of which journey I did with my brother and Kasey (who’d been particularly talkative when they arrived the previous day), allowing the HP tower to fall onto the platform as I disembarked. Fortunately, it proved to be in good working order and I left that and our old map of the world from the bathroom before saying goodbye for a year. I cycled to Kerry’s and gave Joss a football and my rollerblades, which he was soon trying. One unused item after another, we are emptying the flat: the local charity shop has benefited too.
Joss and I had to squeeze under the locked gate for the hospital car-park that is a regular route to matches. Had someone simply failed to do their job adequately or was it spite? This was a question that recurred within the context of the match and the most astonishing footballing decision I’ve ever been witness to. As Joss commented after the match, it had everything a football game might: injuries, a penalty, a disallowed goal, a sending to the stands and then some.
Goalkeeper Mart Poom was substituted just minutes after the start when he came out to head the ball outside his area and went over the top of an opponent, dislocating his shoulder. His replacement, Scott Loach, was kept busy (Reading had started on the front foot and looked like they could be in for a hatful), stopping a couple of point-blank attempts. Although the Royals looked likely to score, the events of the 13th minute are going to be on a future “What happened next?” section of A Question of Sport: the BBC describe it as “farcical” and “one of the strangest goals ever”, though they should have used inverted commas towards the end of that phrase.
From a Reading corner, John Eustace and Noel Hunt went up for a ball, which the Watford no. 8 seemed to win and send over the goal line a few yards the linesman’s side of the post. Another Reading player tried to keep it in, hooking it back for a third to head against the crossbar (after Loach’s fingertips), it rebounded back into play, there was a third shot parried and then whistle went. There were no appeals, everybody assumed it was a corner or goalkick but the referee’s assistant - Nigel Bannister – had told the ref it was a goal and despite the outrage on and off the pitch, it stood.
The anger and disgust engendered by the injustice at least brought the crowd to life. Along with the predictable hostility (“Cheat”, “Wanker”, “You don’t know what you’re doing” and “You’re going home in a Watford ambulance”), came the self-other merging that is required for great support and we went through the litany of tunes. Whenever the ref was at our end again and the abuse had died down, I led the shouts of the question we wanted an answer to. “Who scored, ref?” “What was his name?”
Discussing it with two guys behind me I correctly (according to other, later, sources) assumed that the mistake had been the assistant seeing the ball cross the goal line and believing it was between the posts. Nevertheless, it hardly makes any sense: a Reading player wouldn’t have been trying to prevent it crossing the line if it were between the sticks. It was suggested at the time and has been since that Reading should just have let Watford score, but as I said in the ground, I read in a “You are the ref” column in The Observer not so long ago that a referee couldn’t allow that type of gamesmanship to stand.
With us still down at half-time (Jobi McAnuff had been taken off injured before that), there were more reports from fans of what media sources were saying and – though it didn’t need it from where we sit at the front of the Rookery – the unfairness was confirmed. When Bannister came on (to boos) and over to us to check the nets, I took up the shout again but he was laughing off the catcalls by looking at one of the Reading players and pointing at himself in “Do they mean me?” mock-surprise. Perhaps at that stage he still didn’t know what he’d done? We discussed that too.
The atmosphere stayed hot and the backing inspired the Golden Boys. Before the hour mark, Tommy Smith scored his fourth goal of the season after penalty-area head tennis. All of us had the same idea for a song; “1-0 to the Golden Boys”. Not long after that Aidy “Betty” Boothroyd was sent to the stands for saying too much, making ref Stuart Attwell even more popular. There were constant problems with two balls on the pitch; it was a shambles and I kicked off “Sign on, with a pen in your hand, and you’ll never ref again”.
That was forgotten quickly as John Joe O’Toole passed to Will Hoskins and ran on to collect the ball and pass it wide of Hahnemann: cue “2-0 to the Golden Boys”. And then it all died.
The injustice righted, the fans quietened, the zest went from the team and it all went back to Reading domination. They had a goal disallowed and then with three minutes left and John Joe O’Toole also off injured (Al Bangura came on), Reading got a penalty from what was said to be a Jay Demerit tackle. They scored (shame for Loachy, who played really well), the points were shared and the result, if not the entire day’s proceedings, was fair.
Within a few minutes of our slightly late arrival – and as three stewards strolled to their seated positions in front of us – the stench of rotting garbage wafted into the Rookery. It was not that, however, which kept the 13,000 fans quiet, but the rubbish being played out on the pitch. The Horns were uninspired and Plymouth, bottom of the table without a win, were able to pass better and move faster. On the half-hour, they put together a fine combination that culminated in a curling shot inside Mart Poom’s post in front of us and the team went off to boos at half-time. Despite the intermittent recurrence of the pong, the Yellow Army was in better voice in the second half but not for the first time this season, the response team’s heavy-handedness with the standing fans at the back of the stand led to chants of “stand up if you hate stewards”. On the pitch, our captain Jay Demerit had his hands above his head as the ball was crossed into the area and from the resultant penalty Argyle scored their second away goal of the night and season. Two-nil down the team stepped up a gear and Tommy Smith had a cross-shot converted by John Joe O’Toole to put us in with a hope. Meanwhile, Joss was warned by the leader of the fluorescent jackets that he’d made two obscene hand gestures and one more and he’d walk. I called him a naughty boy. Then the same guy and several of his henchmen came to cause trouble with the cheer-leading Liam (Curly) I have mentioned several times before and none of us could follow the game as we protested their over-reaction. The game finished with a 2-1 defeat but it was the misuse of authority - rather than the result or the inexplicable reek - which stank.
A full weekend in London started with London CAAT’s second Merchants of Death walk – shortened to ten Central London offices – starting at Victoria (and INSYS Lockheed Martin) as before but ending with MBDA and drinks at the Chandos. The decision to do the walking tour on a Saturday may have been one of the reasons why more than twice as many people turned up but Edda’s PR work undoubtedly contributed. There was no escort today, though I’d received a call earlier in the week from someone at Charing Cross police station and we were asked what we were doing outside Aegis (opposite Scotland Yard) and I was told to put my sign down in “a royal park” (outside Buckingham Palace).
At home, Jun had already fed my mum and Brian when I returned and I checked the score (WFC went down 2-0 at Hillsborough), we caught a bus (Oysters and passes) to Waterloo Bridge and the Thames Festival. We started on Thames Beach and then walked east along the South Bank (taking in some Korean taekwondo as part of their Ch’usok or Harvest Moon festival) and had drinks at Doggetts by Blackfriars bridge. We were too late for the Feast on the Bridge so crossed London Bridge and caught a taxi to Chinatown.
On Sunday we played a little Wii and then did much the same route for the second day of the festival. We caught a little parkour and some Indian dancing, though the highlight for mum and Brian seemed to be the drunk guy who joined the Bollywood-style boogie. More drinks at the same pub led to a number 17 home and Jun’s cooking. We saw them off with vases, jars of sauce, a camera and a phone and said “see you on the other side of the world” (Beijing in 40 days).
I shared the journey to Watford Junction with Trevor and Kasey, who’d stayed at ours Friday and were heading back after 26 hours of games and play. On the train, my niece was quieter but as stuck to her father as ever. A fortnight previously we’d walked along the canal to Camden but, though it was close Friday, it was typically grey and we curtailed the same trip. The sun was out for the football though, even at the later kick-off time of 5.20. I said temporary goodbyes and cycled to Kerry’s to walk with Joss in my sweaty Blissett t-shirt and as we neared the stadium we heard a cheer that could only have been for a goal for the visitors and so it proved. The guy behind us, who asked me Tuesday to look out for Fender valves in Tokyo when I told him I was going to Japan, told us that Poom had messed up a clearance kick and the attacker whose feet the ball landed at capitalised. I asked if he knew the Carling Cup draw and informed him that we had West Ham home, which Joss had guessed when I said it was a Premiership team. The Horns looked bright for the first ten minutes we saw but Tamas Priskin seemed off the pace (again). Ipswich played some nice stuff though and looked like they could add another but Poom was making up for his earlier error. John Harley had a great diving header rebound off the post but as the Tractor Boys taunted us with the usual numbers, the fans were having a hard time getting behind the team until after half-time when they were attacking the Rookery end. The second half saw the Golden Boys with renewed vigour and momentum. John Joe O'Toole had come on for the championship debutting defender Joprdan Parkesand provided the attacking edge that comes along with his (sometimes) headless chicken running. It was fifteen minutes before the energy paid off and John Eustace headed in from a corner. Watford continued to pile on the pressure and even when Jobi McAnuff hit the bar from a few yards off, I remained optimistic. I was right to be so. McAnuff had another shot parried with minutes left and JJ was there to head in the rebound, give us 3 points, and leave us eighth in the league.
Watford v Darlington (Carling Cup 2nd Round) Tuesday 26th August
Realised at a Euston bike-stand that I’d left my keys at home; boarded a train 25 mins later that was cancelled after another 10; squeezed onto a second train which was also cancelled (lost my earphone plastic); had to sort out the fact that Joss’ season ticket hadn’t loaded the payment. We hadn’t missed much when we got in though. Watford were shooting towards us in the Rookery and Tamas Priskin did have a chance not long later. As against Bristol Rovers in the first round, the team was a combination of the young and the bloodied. Lewis Young started and showed potential but Tamas Priskin and Will Hoskins up front together only once produced a move that impressed: a touch and flick that came to nothing. Young had a shot prevented from crossing the line by Hoskins but Damien Francis scored not long afterwards and we were more concerned with half-time breaks than our lack of domination against a League Two side with two points in three games (a mere 28 more than our erstwhile rivals). There were warning signs as the second half dragged, not least Scott Loach making a very good save low to his left. It was how the evening started, however, that means I could have predicted an injry-time equaliser and extra time. Penalties loomed until substitute John Joe O’Toole netted to relieved cheers with minutes left.
I am no connoisseur of Olympic ceremony history but as the last of the firework smoke above the Bird’s Nest diffused effortlessly into Beijing’s notorious air, London’s contribution hung around like a wet fart. The BBC voice described the eight minute London 2012 section as “fun”, “quirky”, “energetic, youthful and entertaining”, only the second of which was true. Nevertheless, David Beckham goalie-kicking a ball off an out-sized double-decker bus – which opened out more like the Batmobile than an English rose – felt sadly appropriate. Beckham’s transitory fame was only the natural progression of a focus on iconic images. How do you match the Great Wall? A CGI of graffiti being sprayed. The video encompassed “our” architecture: Big Ben, the Gherkin, Tate Modern and the London Eye as well as the architecture of our lives: a zebra crossing, a black cab, cyclists and umbrellas. All of it would have been lost on the Chinese, Jun assures me. Some of it was lost on me. How can cyclists be ‘uniquely London’ in China? Didn’t Katie Melua sing that song years ago? China organise choreography’s epitome. Some guys in Soho represent us through Jimmy Page and Leona Lewis singing “Whole lotta love”. Err, couldn’t they at least have persuaded Elton John to change a few lyrics (again) and plink-plonk “Olympic Torch in the Wind”? Finally, the dancers unveil a girl chosen by Blue Peter viewers (after the cat-naming scandal, I was forced to consider that this child may have been pre-chosen to reinforce the multicultural make-up of the choir). It felt like a big unfunny in-joke. Perhaps I was just cynical because we’d had to witness Boris Johnson bumbling in with half his hands in his jacket pockets, slouching alongside a podium of stiff spines and better tucking-in. The traditional circus ditty – my ex-ringtone – troubles my grey matter associations whenever I see him. Probably not as painful as A Clockwork Orange, though. The clown preceded a strangely impotent flag and “our” national anthem. I karaoke the Pistols’ God Save The Queen but loathe the god & monarch trite. Comforted by the commentator’s sketch of the Sydney eight minutes (see title), I was able to enjoy her qualification of London: “the coolest place on the planet, say the organisers”. Yet Londoners shown celebrating were doing so on the Mall, outside Buckingham Palace. We subjects with no written constitution and a royal family that we implore a deity to “save”, so cool. At least we have newspapers.
Though the season has just begun, I couldn’t help but feel a bit Groundhog Day as the minutes passed on our first home league game of the 2008/9 season. The starting line-up was (slightly) different to any I’d ever seen, the subs’ bench included new on-season-long-loan Grzegorz Rasiak, and the first-team is trying to play a new style of football. Nevertheless, the elements of familiarity have bred sufficient ennui for me to recognise it in my own celebration of man-of-the-match Tommy Smith’s goal after half an hour.
Although Charlton were down to ten men before half-time, the Hornets didn’t really look like adding to the total until after Rasiak had come on for Tamas Priskin and put himself in the sort of positions the Hungarian doesn’t seem to find. It finished 1-0 though.
Got back to go out with Nicola and say goodbye before she went back to Brisbane. Beers in the Montagu Pike, where I was regaled with Julie’s exploits in too much detail, were followed by more and boogie in Bordeline, watching Faisel try to chat up every member of a hen party and more.
NottinghamForest v Watford
Saturday 23rd August
Followed the latter part of the match through TV updates as we watched highlights of the Olympics. The three clean sheets we’ve kept were undone by Forest, who took the lead twice only for Tommy Smith to equalise. Their third goal was the final one of the match.
Hanna and Rodney came round later and I proceeded to lose at tennis, golf and boxing on the Wii and at Texas Holdem too.
Joss met me in the shop having had to go back for his season ticket and we got him the new season’s shirt before queuing at our turnstiles, which will obviously be unable to cope when we get to the league games, and in just after kick-off to our slightly wet seats. Familiar faces behind but not in front: the ground was less than a third full and the glass felt the same way. We needed the programme to identify certain players: Theo Robinson (back from a long loan at Hereford), Ross Jenkins (namesake of one of the Taylor-era greats) and Jon Harley, while Scott Loach made his first start in a game we’ve seen.
It was clear that we were trying to keep the ball on the ground and equally so that we are not yet an accomplished passing side. Will Hoskins, replacing Tamas Priskin – who has a head injury – looked sharp and his low centre of gravity helped him make a few runs that were just a turn or two short of mazy. Robinson also looked dangerous at points but was unable to convert chances he created. At the back, Mat Sadler, Leigh Bromby, Adrian Mariappa and transfer-listed Lloyd Doyley dealt comfortably with the League One’s front men while the midfielders generally negated each other.
We took the opportunity of the break to get warm food and out of the cold and saw on the screens that Moses Ashikodi had put his loan side (Hereford again) ahead at Crystal Palace. “Typical,” I felt. Theo scored loads for them last season and now Moses may do the same. Meanwhile, we can’t score for the proverbial boiled sugar and butter. After half-time we moved back a few rows to avoid the latest shower and endured a half whose highlight was their keeper getting hit with a ball thrown back from the crowd and, five minutes later, retaliating when a kid tried the same thing from the row in front of where we’d been. Philips took some stick the rest of the match for that.
Watford substitutes included Ashley Young’s younger brother Lewis but it was another, Billy Gibson, who had the greater effect. I had not been looking forward to extra-time but fortunately was spared it when Hoskins latched on to a Gibson pass and coolly slotted home. Joss wants Luton at home (partly, I think, to taunt them over their thirty point deduction) but I am easy. This match was not.
Even before we’d been defeated by eventual play-off winners HullCity at the end of last season, Jordan Stewart had been allowed to leave. Nathan Ellington was loaned to Derby, where he joined Stewart, after one season as our record signing and departed with some words about the style of play he preffered. Danny Shittu seemed poised to join Rangers all summer but went to Bolton for £2 million a week or so ago and Darius Henderson left for the same fee to rivals Sheffield United, where he has already scored in pre-season. Other peripheral players left too and coming in we had Jon Harley from Burnley on a free. Meanwhile the chairman has announced that we have somehow spent all the money that we earned in our premiership season and from the sales of Ashley Young, Hameur Bouazza (now at Charlton) and Marlon King (now at Hull in the premiership).
There is talk that we may need to offload Tommy Smith and Jobi McAnuff this month too while the need for a striker was underlined by the nil-nil draw we got at Selhurst Park today. While there were “handbags” during a game we dominated, I was with Jun and friends in Chinatown pretending that going sixths on dim sum was a fair deal for a vegetarian before Rod gave three of us a lift to Walthamstow Stadium for one of the last evenings of greyhound racing there. I’d happily have traded the few pounds down I was on the races for a point away against a team that finished above us last year. It might just be that I’m unduly pessimistic.
London CAAT decided on a “Merchants of Death” walk as one part of our “Stop the Arms Trade Week”. Rather than a series of protests, this was a more sedate tour of Central London, with descriptions of certain companies thrown in. So thirteen of us met outside Victoria station and even had the sun shining on us. In terms of the types of companies we went to, there was a clear distinction.
Obviously, we took in major military producers and arms dealers such as BAe Systems, Boeing UK, Rolls Royce, Lockheed Martin (including INSYS), QinetiQ, MATRA BAe, Northrop Grumman, General Dynamics and Land Rover Leyland International Holdings. Among such “Merchants of Death” there is a long history of corruption, sometimes involving countries with serious records of human rights abuse, which underlines how indiscriminate the trade is.
In addition, the knowledgeable guides informed those present of the details of some of the numerous corporate mercenaries who have their offices in Central London. These include Spear Communications, Aegis Defence Services, Erinys International and ArmorGroup.These Private Military and Security Companies are making a killing out of wars in Iraq and Afghanistan in a trade worth more than $100 billion. PMSCs outnumber British soldiers in Iraq by a ratio of more than 6:1.
We were also able to discuss certain themes as we progressed. Rolls Royce, the single biggest employer of engineering graduates (BAe is second), benefits from the hundreds of millions that military exports are subsidised by and those subsidies clearly skewer the market. QinetiQ, owned now by the Carlyle Group (which includes John Major), and MATRA BAe, who supplied the last head of DESO, afforded us the opportunity to talk about the revolving door between government and business.
I arrived at work to find all systems down and classes cancelled as a consequence. The guy who bid me leave said I’d be able to watch the Rangers game but I corrected him. Jun and I went to a pub near Mornington Crescent that I’d phoned to check would show it having been turned away from the local earlier. It was a dream start for us. After eleven minutes, good work by Jobi McAnuff led to Darius Henderson pulling off a one-two with Nathan Ellington in the box and slotting us in front. We stayed on the front foot and dominated without really looking like adding to the total until a couple of minutes before half-time when a Hull cross that didn’t look dangerous saw Richard Lee stranded and a ridiculously high header go over him and in.
We never looked like we’d score again after the break and with half an hour leftBetty gambled by bringing on striker Tamas Priskin and taking off defender Adrian Mariappa, who’d made a terrible back pass in the first half and had been lucky not to give away a penalty in the second. The Hungarian smashed another shot at the keeper soon after coming on (as he had Sunday) but crossing the ball would probably have meant a goal. Hull took off Windass and brought on Folan, who made an immediate impact. It was downhill from there. They scored a second, meaning we needed three more (haven’t scored four all season), and in the final two minutes they added two more. The fans invaded the pitch twice and Mexican waves rocked the KC stadium. 6-1 on aggregate and yet we played better passing football than I’ve seen us do for ages. We need strikers, a midfielder, a right back and perhaps a keeper. As for the manager, that debate will rage but I’m prepared to stand by him if the dressing room are.
Our play-off semi-final first leg was full of incident and we actually played pretty well. With a Danny Shittu header disallowed after only five minutes, the boisterous Yellow Army might have been forgiven for thinking we’d score at home at last but with Nathan Ellington anonymous throughout, it was left for Jobi McAnuff to have the best (missed) chances with Tamas Priskin forcing a good save from their keeper and man-of-the-match, Myhill. However, way before the Hungarian impressed, we’d let in two early goals. The first derived from a mistake by centre-back Danny Shittu, who clashed into Mat Sadler out in the left-back’s position, leaving their winger to cross for a shot from Nick Barmby to slip under keeper Richard Lee. Fifteen minutes later after another scramble, Lee was unable to get up quick enough to stop a header from Dean “who ate all the pies” Windass.
The fans stayed behind the team for once and willed a goal before half-time that didn’t come. We started the second half in blistering form but that goal didn’t come and then our captain, John Eustace, got himself sent off for the second time in a couple of months and although we remained the better team, our chances of reducing the deficit ahead of Wednesday slipped by.
It was via the non-drama of BBC live text that I half-watched the drama unfold. Watford were one down within a couple of minutes at Bloomfield Road and still losing at half-time. Quarter of an hour into the second half and Darius Henderson received a second yellow leaving ten men to search for an equaliser. As it happens, at this stage of the afternoon even defeat would have left us in sixth but within ten minutes Tommy Smith, our player of the season, had equalised. Later Ipswich and Wolves both scored, which meant that the draw was what we required to see us into the play-offs on goal difference.
What can a fair-weather-fan say? I’ve used all the clichés about punching above our weight and have pointed out that the other relegated teams are still (and have now finished) below us. Nevertheless, with expectations so high after such a fantastic start to the season, how can the Yellow Army be less than disappointed with the performances of the last six months and the results over the last two? We can’t score, we don’t pass well and worse than that, we can’t beat even the lowest-placed sides in this division.
Home to third-placed Hull on Sunday 11th and away on Wednesday 14th must surely bring our season to an end. West Bromwich Albion finished champions and Stoke took second place. BristolCity (4th) meet CrystalPalace in the other play-off final so I’d guess a Hull-Palace final at Wembley. Somehow, though, despite the narrow margin by which our season has been allowed to continue, there remains that fan’s hope that favouritism will triumph over realism.
