Football

I had promised myself that I should do some writing this weekend. Well, it will have to be tomorrow then, if I am not to hold myself in breach of promise.

This morning largely did not happen. I woke up at regular intervals during the night (I wish I knew why I can't get a night of unbroken sleep recently), which meant that this morning was interspersed with naps while I was ostensibly listening to the radio. Then DT suggested that we go to Underhill to watch the mighty Barnet FC play the equally splendid Rushden & Diamonds in the undoubted glamour tie of the footballing weekend.

Those of you who do not follow football through choice, or through isolation - ie you live on a different continent - or both (telemeister) there is a large element of irony present in that description. There are four professional football leagues in England, containing a total of 92 clubs. Barnet and Rushden & Diamonds rank somewhere lower than the mid 80s in a system where all aim to be as close to number 1 as possible.

Barnet play with little confidence, no width and little penetration. Their defence is appalling. They won 2-1.

I doubt that I shall be making regular trips to Underhill Stadium; though is nice to be able to get back from there in time to see the football results on TV; it is 26 years since I lived that close to a football ground. Plus it did remind me of one of the things I like about live football in small, local stadiums: the crowd banter.

We spent a goodly portion of the game wondering precisely why the crowd kept chanting we've got the best turban in the league, until we realised they were probably saying German. There was a short, black Down's Syndrome chap a few rows in front of us. Whenever the crowd started singing, he would step forward, turn around and begin conducting at which point the chant would change to Little Man, Little Man, Little Man. Then he would bow, be cheered and events would move on. On one occasion, as a Rushden player broke away from his marker, someone shouted, "Foul him! No. Don't foul him!" at which point another voice in best commentator fashion observed "contradictory advice from the crowd, there."

A chap just in front of me made the very basic error of investigating the contents of the steak and gravy pie he'd just bought from the refreshments cabin. We didn't see him for much of the game after that. But he looked young. He'll learn. If you buy 'em, eat 'em. But don't enquire into the contents too closely. They won't harm you, but appearances can be deceiving. It is wisdom one can only gain with experience.

Football

I had promised myself that I should do some writing this weekend. Well, it will have to be tomorrow then, if I am not to hold myself in breach of promise.

This morning largely did not happen. I woke up at regular intervals during the night (I wish I knew why I can't get a night of unbroken sleep recently), which meant that this morning was interspersed with naps while I was ostensibly listening to the radio. Then DT suggested that we go to Underhill to watch the mighty Barnet FC play the equally splendid Rushden & Diamonds in the undoubted glamour tie of the footballing weekend.

Those of you who do not follow football through choice, or through isolation - ie you live on a different continent - or both (telemeister) there is a large element of irony present in that description. There are four professional football leagues in England, containing a total of 92 clubs. Barnet and Rushden & Diamonds rank somewhere lower than the mid 80s in a system where all aim to be as close to number 1 as possible.

Barnet play with little confidence, no width and little penetration. Their defence is appalling. They won 2-1.

I doubt that I shall be making regular trips to Underhill Stadium; though is nice to be able to get back from there in time to see the football results on TV; it is 26 years since I lived that close to a football ground. Plus it did remind me of one of the things I like about live football in small, local stadiums: the crowd banter.

We spent a goodly portion of the game wondering precisely why the crowd kept chanting we've got the best turban in the league, until we realised they were probably saying German. There was a short, black Down's Syndrome chap a few rows in front of us. Whenever the crowd started singing, he would step forward, turn around and begin conducting at which point the chant would change to Little Man, Little Man, Little Man. Then he would bow, be cheered and events would move on. On one occasion, as a Rushden player broke away from his marker, someone shouted, "Foul him! No. Don't foul him!" at which point another voice in best commentator fashion observed "contradictory advice from the crowd, there."

A chap just in front of me made the very basic error of investigating the contents of the steak and gravy pie he'd just bought from the refreshments cabin. We didn't see him for much of the game after that. But he looked young. He'll learn. If you buy 'em, eat 'em. But don't enquire into the contents too closely. They won't harm you, but appearances can be deceiving. It is wisdom one can only gain with experience.