Blackburn Rovers 3-2 BFC, Saturday 23rd November 2019

‘It’s alright lads, I’ve brought my lucky wet crotch.’

Welcome to....Jack Walker FC

The last time I went to Blackburn it was 30 odd years ago, we won 1-0 and Clive Baker made a double save from a penalty.  Great days.  Fast forward to 2019, and Ewood Park is transformed.  Gone are the small terraces behind each goal (and the actual terrace – wot people lived in – compulsorily purchased by the council, just so’s the Jack Walker-backed Rovers could have a stadium befitting their future.  In the bottom half of division 2.)

Mill Hill.  One Londontyke keeps lookout while another withdraws cash.

So it is, there are 17,000* empty seats today, while they cram the travelling support into one side of the upper tier.  The Londontykes are on the back row, and this has consequences, as I draw blood in my support for the Super Reds by twice fisting the roof jumping up celebrating us scoring.  Yeah, yeah, you’d think I’d learn – but surely celebrating a goal is INSTINCTIVE, unless, of course, you’re stuck in the parallel universe that is the Premiership and VAR.

*problies closer to 20,000, actually, as there can’t have been more than 10,000 home fans.  Ewood Park makes Oakwell look full.

The home end at Ewood Sparse.

YES, we scored 2.  And conceded 3.  Thus, Stuber surely becomes our worst manager in history (statistically), averaging 0.0 points.  Bring back Murray (average across 5 games, 0.6)!  But Stuber makes a difference.  The Austrian has made 5 changes and stuck in every German speaker we have.  Good on him.  Communication is key!  Collins is dropped in goal, for Radlinger, the least dominating tall keeper we’ve had since Paul Malcolm (Clive Baker’s hapless understudy).  Actually, maybe that’s harsh.  I just can’t think of any big keepers we’ve had since Lars Leese and Heinz Muller (ironically, both German. Unironically, both better than Radlinger.)  Bahre was back too.  I was rather hopeful he’d take to the higher level of football, but no.  He’s the modern day Mike Sheron, forever destined to be on a different wavelength to everyone else.  Schmidt was given a runout too.  A first start?  Hopefully last too, dragged off at half-time.  Did he even get a kick?  I bet the less-than-Great Dane Mads Andersen can speak Germanic too.  He can f*** off.

Skill and Labour (Google tells me).

But hey ho.  We put up a fight, we were better than them for long periods.  We outshot them.  We out mis-shot them.  We had more corners.  We were the better team.  We lost.  We went one down after 20 odd minutes.  Was it Rovers’ 1^st attack?  Mads took the blame, a mislaid pass being picked up in midfield and they cut through us.  But who was it he gave it to, who couldn’t be ar5ed to stick out a leg?  Mowatt?  A throughball, a mad keeper running out for no reason, a squared ball and an empty net.  We just give the opposition goals.

What's with the concrete pathway at the front?

Down at half-time, the manager brings on Dougall and Chaplin.  Why’s he dropped the former?  Been our best player (apart from Woodrow) since he came back.  Within 3 minutes we have equalised, as Brown drives into the box and lays it off for Chaplin to hit it early.  THE MANAGER’S A GENIUS!  It’s all us, as we pile/meander forward hoping to score another.  We don’t.  They do.

A rare forage upfield for the homesters leaves Stewart Downing free on the edge of our box.  The completely left-footed worst signing in Liverpool’s history (ok, maybe not as bad as Benteke or Carroll) drills it home from 20 yards with his RIGHT foot.  How does this always happen to us?  His 1^st goal in a year or summink.  That Forest bloke the other month, I think it was his 1^st goal in 3 years.  I’m not claiming bad luck though.  Mere incompetence.  Nobody has consistently let in 20 yarders over the last 10 years like we have. 

...cos it doesn't look good when people escape with match in progress.

Our loyal support (we are at the back with the idiots/young uns) shuts the f*** up again, just like they did after Rovers’ 1^st.  ‘Your support is f***ing s***’ they were crowing earlier.  (It was/is by the way.)  These youngsters though, seems they won’t sing with us oldies.  Maybe cos we have nothing in our repertoire which references the Pope or the IRA.  WTF?  These little pr*cks weren’t even alive when I moved to London and the underground was constantly held up with bomb scares.  Or when Victoria Station was bombed with Nice Guy Chris actually in it.  If only we had anyone in our crew who could teach these numbskulls something about History!

The view from the back.

But it’s alright, cos they find their voices again after 82 minutes, a marvellous piece of improv from Cauley seeing him thrust his chest out to direct it home for the equaliser.  Or via his hand as the media put it.  For the record, he was right in front of us, and you could see him physically stick his chest out as the ball hits it.  It’s party time again, and another chance to fist the roof.  I love fisting (!)
But can we hold out for the draw?  Draw?  F*** that.  We pile forward, Mowatt hits a shot which deflects to a wrong-footed Cauley.  The latter has a piledriver tipped over.  And then it happens.  One attack, one goal.  It’s bad enough we can’t defend the 1^st ball in, but we can’t defend the 2^nd either, as Rovers win the 1^st header, then Dack is somehow on his own between 2 defenders.  This happens every single f***ing week.  The header is saved, but before our defenders work out what month we’re getting relegated in, Dack has put the rebound in.  3-2, we’re doomed (doomed, I tell ya!)  Still, there’s always the journey back…

Onwards and…downwards!

*** Cauley.  I’ll miss him when he’s gone. 

** Chaplin.  Actually looked like a footballer, and did what forwards are MEANT to do, score.  That’s 2 he’s got this season.

* Ben Williams.  Comfortable in possession and ably supported the attack (though it showed how slow our attacks were, that he could keep up).

Londontykes' MOTM: 1. Ben Williams 2. (Cauley) Woodrow 3. Mowatt

Ewood Park

Despatches:‘Oi! Redcoat!’  Yes, as we walked into town for the deserved beer we never got (train times and the fact Blackburn is twinned with Scunthorpe and Burslem meant we were unable), I overtook some of the Barnsley yoof.  ‘They’re Blackburn’ I heard one scrote say (I had Loko and Selwood just behind me, so good luck lads).  ‘Which way is t’station?’ said testicle asked, in a poorly disguised fishing attempt to see if I was ‘one of them’.  I told him I had no idea, but knew it was somewhere in the town centre, (for which I was following a sign).  ‘Where you from?’ he enquired.  Now, I’m not used to making friends at my age.  Did he want it factual?  ‘I’m from a small town in County Durham called Ferryhill.  Are you aware of said former village mining community, squire?’  Or did he mean the less literal ‘where do you live?’  ‘Well, kind sir, I’m from a lively inner city South London locality called Peckham.  Has one ever partaken in a visit to said realm?’  No, while I considered my response, Loko gave them a terse ‘We’re Barnsley’.  He didn’t add ‘knobheads’ but there was definitely a word missing which hung in the air like the braincell said yoof had borrowed for the day.  Jesus.

The stroll from the pub to Ewood.

We also discovered it was a false economy going into Blackie for the fast train to Preston, as it stopped at Mill Hill (not that one) anyway, ie, we could have gone for another beer near the ground and caught the train from up that way.  Next time.  If there’s ever a next time.

Pre-match, we got off at Mill Hill.  A place that would consider it an honour to be called ‘drab’ even if the sun was out (it wasn’t).  I believe only two businesses were doing any business, as far as I could see.  The betting shop, and the pub (once we got there).  The north – what a place.  (Only kidding, Molly.  Just checking yer reading!)  Still, the pub was friendly enough, having two very strokable dogs in it.  And it’ll stay memorable for a while yet, as some idiot, rocking on his chair, landed on Dave’s foot….he yelped and upset the table, and an entire pint went over Nice Guy Chris, who didn’t seem happy that said idiot was now laughing.  But I couldn’t help it.  If only the wet lap didn’t belong to a man of retirement age…Still, it was nice to get an idea of how the day would go, eh Chris?

Ewood towering over nearby terraces.

The players?  Radlinger made no difference whatsoever, and if I’m being stat-happy, he’s averaging 3 goals a game when I’ve seen him (once).  Diaby, Mads, Halme…it doesn’t matter how many centre halves we have, there’ll still be a gap somewhere.  Sibbick had a mare of Cavare proportions at right back.  Mowatt was tidy, if unspectacular.  Bahre flitted in and out (mainly out) without ever seeing the ball.  Brown looked the part 2^nd half, as he was allowed to play in midfield.  How’s he ever going to develop if he plays a different position every week?  And I thought Dougall and Thomas looked alright when they came on…but problies cos I like Dougall and Thomas.

We never did get that pint in Blackburn.  Nor Preston, where we changed trains. Still, they do have a Greggs open till 9 and a Sainsbury.  It’d been a long day, but there was salvation in the form of the Euston Tap.  After being on the road for nigh on 12 hours, we were finally in a decent boozer, in civilisation.    

I like the potted history of Rovers on one corner...

Drink du jour: Leffe, Stella, Punk Dead Pony, Punk IPA, random wheat beer at £6 a pop.

Away: c.1300

The Damage:
£40 train
£25 ent
£3 prog
= £68

The Tunes:
Just For A Day (Slowdive)
Ladies And Gentlemen We Are Floating In Space (Spiritualized)

Ewood panorama

The 1880s.  The Golden Years.

Ewood's scoreboard.  Not much use to us.

Rammed.

The Jack Walker Stand.

Nearly forgot...our new flag made it's (losing) debut.  Cheers Dave!