Slipperduke
The Camden Cad
My neighbours will never speak to me again. When I awoke on Wednesday morning to find my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth and an empty bottle of white wine in my bed, I was dimly aware that something incredible might have happened. It took another 30 seconds for the memories to filter back into my mind. As they did so, one fuzzy image at a time, I became aware of a gentle ticking noise in the background; the property value of the area was still dropping....
It was with heavy heart that the door to my flat was opened to a legion of Southend Exiles on Tuesday night. One by one, they arrived, clutching bags of booze that they hoped would take away the pain of not being at Roots Hall. We'd tried desperately to get seats for the game, but with a ticketing system that left the door gaping for touts, we were all left empty-handed. Still, we thought, not too worry. We've spared ourselves a fruitless night in the cold. It wasn't like we were going to win the game, was it?
James, a gaming executive, arrived first with his girlfriend, Jenny. Neither of them were particularly confident. "I've heard that Rooney's in the starting line-up," whispered James conspiratorially. We all shuddered, as if an icy breeze had crossed the room. Next in was Matt, a barrister from the city. Pulling drinks out of his bag, he addressed the room with grim fatality. "Five-nil to United, I think." I thought he was wrong. I reckoned on at least seven goals.
By the time the match kicked off, the front room was audibly straining as sofas were hauled round, chairs shifted and needless obstructions, like Jonny the token Leyton Orient fan, were moved to the back. Manchester United imperiously pinged the ball about on the slick surface, but then found to their horror that Southend could do the same.
"Well, that's two minutes on the board and we still haven't conceded," beamed Mark from Muswell Hill, keeping his expectations low.
"You know what?" I said as a plate of white chocolate fingers went round the room, "if someone told me right now that we'd be guaranteed extra-time, I'd be happy. I just don't want us to get humiliated in front of the world."
"Not for me, thanks," said Matt eskewing the white chocolate fingers and clutching the dark chocolate ones close to his chest. "Once you've had black, you never go back."
Ten minutes passed and as belief spread through the blue shirts, it spilled out of the TV and across the room. Every tackle was met with a cheer, every Eastwood run provoked a roar that rumbled around the flat and echoed out of the windows and down the street.
When Southend were awarded a free-kick some distance outside the box, we were edging forward on their seats. Surely it was too far out? Surely Freddy Eastwood wasn't considering a shot from there?
"Is he going to have a crack?" I asked. "I think he is, you know...."
The next thing I remember is being on Matt's back, kissing Mark's stubbly cheek and wondering who was screaming. It turned out to be me. Somehow not a single drink had been knocked over in the melee, the girls scattering behind us with quick fingers as we tumbled off the sofa.
"Your hands, look at your hands," said my girlfriend, as the screaming faded away. "They're shaking!"
"Wibble," I said faintly and slugged at a drink. "Wibble."
Others were more coherent. "Jesus Christ!" squeaked Matt. "Jesus Christ, we're one-nil up against Manchester United!"
Camera-phones were hauled out to snatch a memory of the scoreboard before something horrible happend. Young midfielder David Jones confirmed our need to capture the moment by crashing a shot off the post seconds after Eastwood's goal. We were looking wobbly. In the front room, our shouts became incoherent and panicked.
By now we had attracted the attention of the people across the street. Our windows, opened wide to prevent a crowded room getting very sweaty, presented the neighbours with a reality show more gripping than anything on television. Curtains up and down the street twitched as residents weighed up whether or not they should call the police.
When half-time finally arrived and our lead remained intact, the pacing began. James took to the kitchen, Matt turned circles in front of the telly and I smoked and fidgeted on the window-sill.
"What would you say to them at half-time?" asked James. "How do you get them to repeat that performance?"
"Brian Clough did something interesting once," I said, in between shaky drags. "He had to go to Anfield and just hold Liverpool to a draw to qualify for the next round of the European Cup. At half-time, with Forest and Liverpool locked together at 0-0, he made everyone sit down in the dressing room. 'Listen to that,' he told them and they listened. For 15 minutes, not one of them dared to make a sound, they just sat there in silence. Then when the buzzer sounded, they headed out for the second half."
"What happened?" asked Mark.
"They lost 0-3," I said, "but it was an interesting approach."
The second half was a very different story. For the first 45 minutes, Southend had kept pace with the Premiership leaders, but as the minutes ticked by they were stretched further and further by the relentless waves of red shirts. Daryl Flahavan, the shortest goalkeeper in the league, played like a man possessed. He hurled his 5ft10 frame around the goal, refusing to be beaten by a succession of Cristiano Ronaldo drives. Spencer Prior, the ageing journeyman centre-back, simply picked up Wayne Rooney and put him in his pocket.
On 70 minutes, Matt cracked. "This," he announced to the room, "is no longer pleasant." He began to bellow, "Out!" every time the ball entered the Southend penalty area, his deep, crisp voice richocheting around the leafy, North London street. The people across the road were now watching our antics openly.
Moments later, and James was in difficulties too. He left his spot on the sofa and paced up and down at the back of the room, occasionally sinking to his haunches when the pressure built.
"You know what?" said Jonny the Orient fan. "You might just win this!"
"Shut up!" we screamed. "Chickens and eggs, man! Don't count anything yet!"
As the seconds ticked down, the volume edged up. Heads were buried in hands, drinks were being kicked over by twitchy feet. "Out!" bellowed Matt again. "Out!" he demanded seconds later.
"Wibble," I said, unable to form words.
We didn't hear the final whistle when it sounded, we were already locked in a wide embrace. For the exiles in that room, this was less about a result and more about vindication. Vindication for the times that people had found out who we supported and asked whether we were non-league or not. Vindication for putting up with people confusing us with Southampton. It was revenge for the moments when plastic Premiership fans looked down their noses at us. It was a tonic for the regular long and crowded train journeys that we made from London to Southend.
Every dire 0-0, every league game lost, every inept manager, it was all forgiven with that final whistle. As more drinks were poured and kisses exchanged across the room, some of the older hands sat quietly, grinning from ear-to-ear. For people more loyal to the cause than me, this was something of a religious experience. I've never been rained on in open terracing in Macclesfield, if I had, last night would probably have killed me.
The shouting and whooping continued apace, but there, dear reader, my recollections come juddering to a halt like the end of an old cinefilm. I await with bated breath, the angry visits from the neighbours. I wonder if they'll understand....
It was with heavy heart that the door to my flat was opened to a legion of Southend Exiles on Tuesday night. One by one, they arrived, clutching bags of booze that they hoped would take away the pain of not being at Roots Hall. We'd tried desperately to get seats for the game, but with a ticketing system that left the door gaping for touts, we were all left empty-handed. Still, we thought, not too worry. We've spared ourselves a fruitless night in the cold. It wasn't like we were going to win the game, was it?
James, a gaming executive, arrived first with his girlfriend, Jenny. Neither of them were particularly confident. "I've heard that Rooney's in the starting line-up," whispered James conspiratorially. We all shuddered, as if an icy breeze had crossed the room. Next in was Matt, a barrister from the city. Pulling drinks out of his bag, he addressed the room with grim fatality. "Five-nil to United, I think." I thought he was wrong. I reckoned on at least seven goals.
By the time the match kicked off, the front room was audibly straining as sofas were hauled round, chairs shifted and needless obstructions, like Jonny the token Leyton Orient fan, were moved to the back. Manchester United imperiously pinged the ball about on the slick surface, but then found to their horror that Southend could do the same.
"Well, that's two minutes on the board and we still haven't conceded," beamed Mark from Muswell Hill, keeping his expectations low.
"You know what?" I said as a plate of white chocolate fingers went round the room, "if someone told me right now that we'd be guaranteed extra-time, I'd be happy. I just don't want us to get humiliated in front of the world."
"Not for me, thanks," said Matt eskewing the white chocolate fingers and clutching the dark chocolate ones close to his chest. "Once you've had black, you never go back."
Ten minutes passed and as belief spread through the blue shirts, it spilled out of the TV and across the room. Every tackle was met with a cheer, every Eastwood run provoked a roar that rumbled around the flat and echoed out of the windows and down the street.
When Southend were awarded a free-kick some distance outside the box, we were edging forward on their seats. Surely it was too far out? Surely Freddy Eastwood wasn't considering a shot from there?
"Is he going to have a crack?" I asked. "I think he is, you know...."
The next thing I remember is being on Matt's back, kissing Mark's stubbly cheek and wondering who was screaming. It turned out to be me. Somehow not a single drink had been knocked over in the melee, the girls scattering behind us with quick fingers as we tumbled off the sofa.
"Your hands, look at your hands," said my girlfriend, as the screaming faded away. "They're shaking!"
"Wibble," I said faintly and slugged at a drink. "Wibble."
Others were more coherent. "Jesus Christ!" squeaked Matt. "Jesus Christ, we're one-nil up against Manchester United!"
Camera-phones were hauled out to snatch a memory of the scoreboard before something horrible happend. Young midfielder David Jones confirmed our need to capture the moment by crashing a shot off the post seconds after Eastwood's goal. We were looking wobbly. In the front room, our shouts became incoherent and panicked.
By now we had attracted the attention of the people across the street. Our windows, opened wide to prevent a crowded room getting very sweaty, presented the neighbours with a reality show more gripping than anything on television. Curtains up and down the street twitched as residents weighed up whether or not they should call the police.
When half-time finally arrived and our lead remained intact, the pacing began. James took to the kitchen, Matt turned circles in front of the telly and I smoked and fidgeted on the window-sill.
"What would you say to them at half-time?" asked James. "How do you get them to repeat that performance?"
"Brian Clough did something interesting once," I said, in between shaky drags. "He had to go to Anfield and just hold Liverpool to a draw to qualify for the next round of the European Cup. At half-time, with Forest and Liverpool locked together at 0-0, he made everyone sit down in the dressing room. 'Listen to that,' he told them and they listened. For 15 minutes, not one of them dared to make a sound, they just sat there in silence. Then when the buzzer sounded, they headed out for the second half."
"What happened?" asked Mark.
"They lost 0-3," I said, "but it was an interesting approach."
The second half was a very different story. For the first 45 minutes, Southend had kept pace with the Premiership leaders, but as the minutes ticked by they were stretched further and further by the relentless waves of red shirts. Daryl Flahavan, the shortest goalkeeper in the league, played like a man possessed. He hurled his 5ft10 frame around the goal, refusing to be beaten by a succession of Cristiano Ronaldo drives. Spencer Prior, the ageing journeyman centre-back, simply picked up Wayne Rooney and put him in his pocket.
On 70 minutes, Matt cracked. "This," he announced to the room, "is no longer pleasant." He began to bellow, "Out!" every time the ball entered the Southend penalty area, his deep, crisp voice richocheting around the leafy, North London street. The people across the road were now watching our antics openly.
Moments later, and James was in difficulties too. He left his spot on the sofa and paced up and down at the back of the room, occasionally sinking to his haunches when the pressure built.
"You know what?" said Jonny the Orient fan. "You might just win this!"
"Shut up!" we screamed. "Chickens and eggs, man! Don't count anything yet!"
As the seconds ticked down, the volume edged up. Heads were buried in hands, drinks were being kicked over by twitchy feet. "Out!" bellowed Matt again. "Out!" he demanded seconds later.
"Wibble," I said, unable to form words.
We didn't hear the final whistle when it sounded, we were already locked in a wide embrace. For the exiles in that room, this was less about a result and more about vindication. Vindication for the times that people had found out who we supported and asked whether we were non-league or not. Vindication for putting up with people confusing us with Southampton. It was revenge for the moments when plastic Premiership fans looked down their noses at us. It was a tonic for the regular long and crowded train journeys that we made from London to Southend.
Every dire 0-0, every league game lost, every inept manager, it was all forgiven with that final whistle. As more drinks were poured and kisses exchanged across the room, some of the older hands sat quietly, grinning from ear-to-ear. For people more loyal to the cause than me, this was something of a religious experience. I've never been rained on in open terracing in Macclesfield, if I had, last night would probably have killed me.
The shouting and whooping continued apace, but there, dear reader, my recollections come juddering to a halt like the end of an old cinefilm. I await with bated breath, the angry visits from the neighbours. I wonder if they'll understand....
