I reckon that’s it for Elland Road, but not Leeds. Me and my Leeds-supporting mate (the one I gifted the poster commemorating the Manchester United victory to, remember?) had a couple of away days.
That’s right, the colossus of the Northern Echo isn’t the only arena I’ve helped to fill with opposition fans. One of the absolute worst was Vicarage Road.
Now, lovely stadium — looked nice, they were getting a new stand done, I’m sure it worked out well, nowt wrong with the place itself. But rules across the board did us in.
First off, you needed to have some level of membership to get away tickets, which neither of us had, so we used the one belonging to my dad’s mate, Sven. When we were asked for ID so we could confirm we actually were Sven, we denied having anything that would identify us. No passports, no driving licences, no debit cards, not even names sewn into the collars of our jackets. We were ghosts to the attendant checking our tickets. The most unsmooth ghosts Watford had ever laid eyes upon.
After surviving that haranguing, we decided to just get into the ground and out of trouble, ‘cos once we were in, they wouldn’t bother us and we could just sit with a nice, cold pint and wait for kick off.
NO ALCOHOL SERVED TO AWAY FANS.
This was irksome. We had walked past roughly thirty-three pubs on the way to the ground but had put all our eggs in the Vicarage basket an hour and a half before kick-off.
What fools we were.
My mate had a pie and a Sprite. I had a Fanta.
An hour later, after discussing Elton John, Elton John’s discography, Elton John’s impact on Watford, and the upcoming match, the match began.
It wasn’t anything to write home about, and though Leeds performed poorly, you’d think they were out there committing war crimes the way the travelling supporters were crucifying them.
Luckily for us, we had the prophet of doom sat behind us, who bellowed out such classics as;
- You don’t deserve to wear the shirt!
- Get off the pitch!
- Fuck off!
- I had to pay to watch this?
- Shit! Shit! Shit!
And other things of that ilk.
We had been reasonably excited to see Jack Butland rock up in goal for Leeds, but he couldn’t stop The Hornets running out 3–0 winners.
Then we couldna find an open pub on the way home.
Feckin’ Tuesday nights.
Home at this point was High Wycombe. I said we’d get here.
After finding Adams Park tucked away in an industrial estate, we were delighted to discover that Leeds had organised a friendly there during the international break. Steve Evans was less than a month into his tenure as manager and obviously wanted to see more of what the team was about.
We couldn’t secure tickets for the away end, so we had to stand at the very perimeter of the North Stand, a gate separating us from our kin.
Leeds scored twice and each time they did, we stifled our celebrations as if holding back a sneeze, just as my dad had done at Brunton Park seven years prior when Leeds visited. Wycombe supporters around us were obviously suspicious, so we quickly followed up with cries of ‘oh no!’ and ‘dammit!’ — we were on an acting course at uni so we obviously pulled it off with aplomb.
A 0–2 win we weren’t allowed to properly celebrate was fun if a bit of a shame, but a benefit of being in a home stand meant we were right next to the tunnel and so received a handshake from Steve Evans (who was in what was a thankless position at the time) as well as ‘The Beard’ Mirco Antenucci. Always liked him.
Another lovely facet of the visit was that the commentary teams were sat up in the seats behind us, and as we took a perch at half-time, I met one member of a particular team and that man was Greg Abbott. I didn’t get to say much to him, but I told him that he was a top manager and that it was an honour to shake his hand. I’m glad I got to do that.
My next two visits to see Gareth Ainsworth’s Chairboys would also be as an away fan, and this time, I got into the away end. By going alone, I felt free of judgment from friends who might have said something about my appreciation of Northampton and Barnet. The former were under the management of Chris Wilder and would go on to win League Two that season, and looking back, I was definitely picking up what Wilder was putting down, but I think I was there to see John-Joe O’Toole really.
It was a banging game in which Wycombe took the lead just two minutes in before The Cobblers scored three either side of half-time. Danny Rowe scored for the hosts ten minutes from time to set up a tidy finale, and meant I had to sit ’til the very last minute even though my parents had arrived in town for a visit and were currently getting help from my housemate to assemble my spinny chair in the kitchen.
Now I remember, I had a friend from Northampton who had enticed me into the side actually. Her grandad was actually a cobbler and his name was Alan Shearer.
Tremendous stuff.
Barnet was just one of those cult clubs I wanted to witness in my time. I remember Graham Stack being between the sticks, Andy Yiadom scoring their equaliser, and every away fan shouting ‘GASH’ with as much ferocity as they could whenever attacker Michael Gash came close.
Finished 1–1. I realised the burgers at Adams Park were pretty tight at this point. And The Hourglass on the way to the ground was a beautifully nasty spot to stop for a pint or three before and after.
That’s what we did on our final journey to see Wycombe. It was another Tuesday night and it finished 0–0 against Yeovil. ‘Nuff said. I had fun seeing Leroy Lita running about, mind. My mate couldna wait to be in the club bar on what was a brisk evening though. We waited in there until five minutes into the game and we were back in there on about the 35th minute to ‘beat the rush’.
It wasn’t a banger.
But Wycombe had afforded me the chance to see a lot of stalwarts. Names I’d heard on TV, the same place I’d seen ’em do great things. Marcus Bean, Aaron Pierre, Matt Bloomfield, Sido Jombati, Max Kretzschmar, and of course, Gareth Ainsworth. What The Chairboys would go on to do would be nothing short of outstanding for any team, let alone a team of their standing.
I don’t think I ever really supported them, but I couldn’t help but commend them.
And while that was the last time I saw Wycombe, it wouldn’t be my last visit to Adams Park.
No, my last visit there would be to see my first international fixture as the England Lionesses took on Serbia in a Euro 2017 qualifier.
Hey look, I’ve got that ticket.
All I remember is a buzzingly positive atmosphere as we blew Serbia away. Before I get into the goals, I will say that I remember Serbia’s Marija Ilić having a good game. So if you’re reading this (you’re not), big up.
It was 7–0.
Alex Greenwood, Rachel Daly, Ellen White, and Izzy Christiansen were all on the scoresheet, accompanied by Karen Carney and her hat-trick. As well as the game being Daly’s debut, it was also the night that Nikita Parris would make her England bow — a coupla European Champions kicking things off.
What struck me immediately as different was the atmosphere. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to get up and cheer on my team, it was just odd adjusting to the manner in which I should.
If I’d have shot up and screamed ‘GET THE FUCK IN’ for each of the seven goals, I could tell that would have felt inappropriate.
It was buzzing, yet friendly. Perhaps it was the distinct lack of testosterone about, but it was certainly a change of gears. Don’t take that as me saying a bad thing about it — more that there is often an underlying air of aggression at men’s games.
Mo’ money, mo’ problems?
To be continued.
C.L.R.
