Manchester United 7-0 BFC, Tuesday 17th September 2024

‘Just grabbing this armchair...so I can survey the scene.’

I’m thinking of writing a book. All the things that annoy me about this country. It will be called ‘Grate Britain’. Just from yesterday I can include the rail network, people referring to Manchester United as ‘United’, half and half scarves, outrageous ticket prices, calling Old Trafford ‘The Theatre of Dreams’, two-tier refereeing, anyone referring to ‘two-tier’ anything...and capitulations by the Super Reds. Where to start with the latter?

We’ve played all season with Craig in midfield, behind a foraging Phillips and Connell. So he’s dropped. DKD is cup-tied, but Jalo gets a start up top, with Watters. Yoganathan is given a trot. Where’s that come from? Are we trying to put our young players in the shop window? Transfer deadline has passed, Darrell. We’re playing away at a Premiership side packed with international talent (and Marcus Rashford) and we’re playing 2 up front without a defensive midfield. Let’s see how this pans out. It works extraordinarily well for 5 minutes, as Cotter skips down the right, only to be chopped. Why is this not a yellow card, ref? Cotter is in acres of space and can pick a pass with no-one between him and the penalty area. The free kick is wasted (one of many ‘stories of our night’).

We haven’t exactly hung on, but Manure are starting to gain the upper hand. If and when we do get the ball, and find ourselves the wrong side of a Premiership star, our player is simply fouled, the home side allowed to re-group, the ref enjoys a joke (probably) and we play on, but with 11 opponents in front of us instead of 4 or 5. This must have happened half a dozen times on the halfway line. We’d turn their player and be on the front foot till a shirt tug here, a ‘mistimed tackle’ there (none of them were ‘mistimed’, their fouls were entirely deliberate to prevent the break). Absolutely zero cards. It’s only little old Barnsley.

Like the Premiership seven-nil, we were fairly comfortable, till we weren’t. In that Prem game, we didn’t concede for the first 20 minutes, but were four down by half-time. Last nite it was 16 minutes. ‘Battling Barnsley’ it was not, as we sought new and varied ways to let Manure score. And just like that Prem game (7 goals from 9 shots) our keeper barely made a save. But before anyone says he had no chance with any, Slonina is at fault for the penalty, haring out of goal (but not haring fast enough) and taking out their player, wide in the area, going nowhere. Needless, but all too predictable, as it happened right in front of us. Was that 2-0? Antony scores and makes that ‘heart’ sign with his hands. Another one for the book.

The gates opened with the 1st, as Rashford burst through from their right. It’s nice that we’re playing a former ‘world class’ England player into form. (Can I add ‘over-rating Marcus Rashford’ to my Grate Britain’?) O’Keefe and Roberts are left in his dust and Slonina invisible as it’s lashed comfortably into the net. Anyway, playing RASHFORD into form? What about all the other United (Grrrrr!) players who’ve been slated all season? Antony, £80m of uselessness looked half decent (only half, mind), while Casemiro was there or thereabouts and Eriksen, no goals in forever, bagged two. ‘Different planet’ I read. And they are. But let’s not pretend they’re all that: if they were that good, they wouldn’t have been playing a 3rd round league cup game; they’d be playing in the Champions League tonite, with Liverpool and Villa. Nevermind Man City and Arsenal. How many would THEY have scored against us?

The 3rd is a clever stabbed finish from Garnacho, the last kick of the half. We are seconds away from going in at a respectable 2-0 and now our thoughts are on ‘how many will this turn into?’. They’re just quicker in thought and movement than slow, lumbering 3rd division players. And without incredible last ditch blocks from Cotter and Roberts, that scoreline would have been worse.

Coach Darrell pulls the plug on his Jalo experiment (the kid losing it every time he had it, all 3 times). Humphreys is on, so maybe we’ll out-tattoo them? Craig is on for Yoga Bear and McCarthy (who everyone has forgotten) comes on for Roberts. We last 4 minutes before Garnacho makes it 4-0. Ludicrous defending on the halfway line sees Garnacho free to run 40 yards to score. I really can’t explain why our entire team had seemingly drifted left, leaving him all on his own. Beyond baffling, but as I said, it’s nice to see the differing ways we can concede a goal, cos this one was a new one on me.

The fifth might be the one where we just gave them the ball on the edge of our own box (Craig?) Our fans turn it up a notch. ‘We’re gonna win 6-5’ coupled with ‘How sh*t must you be, it’s only five nil’. (Chris didn’t like that one.) Turns out we’re not gonna win 6-5. Eriksen scores a close range tap-in for 6, then a long range tap-in for 7. There is a real danger we’ll let in 8 or 9, and one of the few things I’ve got to hang onto in my life is that at least I’ve never seen us concede 8. (Washday, The Mags...even Arsenal...all have in my lifetime). Fortunately, time runs out. Megastars 7 (seven) Amateurs 0 (nil). Still, at least I was out of there quick and managed to get the 1st tram outta dodge. SOME things are creditable in Grate Britain.

Onwards and upwards!

*** No-one. It was bl**dy terrible.
** Cotter. Slim pickings, but for the early runs and the goal bound block, launching himself across goal.
* No-one. I’ve looked up the team again to see if there’s anyone (anyone) who I can give credit to. No, there isn’t.

Londontykes’ MOTM: 1. Cotter 2. No-one 3. De Givigny

Despatches:
My ticket cost £41. A cheeky Lord Selwood asked if we got good value. Well, at about six quid a goal, possibly. Respect to Reedy for boycotting on principle. I’ve been boycotting Dirty L**ds and Washday for years due to their pricing policies, but I couldn’t resist. This will probably be the last time we visit the self-styled ‘Theatre of Dreams’ (don’t get me started). Anyway, we’ll always have February 1998.

Decent turnout, considering. Over 6,000 Reds fans made it over, and let their lot know about it with a rousing ‘we support our local team’. (I didn’t join in, obvs.)

Anyway, I loved my day out. Arrived in Manchester b4 1, pub crawled all day with Nice Guy, had dinner at Mackie Mayor (look it up!). Sadly, my tolerance for alcohol is better than I thought, so I wasn’t in the state I’d hoped to be in for the inevitable hammering.

Drink du jour: Northern Monk Faith, Cloudwater Fuzzy, Beaver Town Neck Oil...and another one…Fancy Juice IPA, Blackjack Hazy Meadow, Elvis Juice at Northern Monk Refractory, Eastern Bloc, Peveril’s Peak, The Britons Protection, Fierce, Mackie Mayor and Brewdog. Outside at Eastern Bloc, in the glorious sunshine, was as good as it gets. Yesterday was my summer.

Away: ‘over 6,000’.

The Damage:
£41 ent
£4 prog (left in the pub)
£13.80 train
= £58.80

Australia 30-10 Samoa, Saturday 19th November 2022

Australia 30-10 Samoa, Rugby League World Cup Final, Old Trafford, att. 67,502

Today is Rugby League World Cup Finals day, for both women and men, at Old Trafford. A day for celebration, a day of joy, a day of battling the transport infrastructure to attend (and get back). Welcome to northern England, 2022.

With my car off the road (awaiting change of ownership…how long will THAT take, DVLA?) I had to take the decision a week ago to buy train tickets to get to Old Trafford. Durham to Manchester. How does that work? Well, first up, there apparently IS a direct service, but no, there’s no tickets. Thus my partner and I are going to change at Huddersfield. We get to Durham station. Oh no we’re not – service cancelled. Trans-Pennine instead direct us to York, to change. Although getting us in 20 minutes or so later than advertised (thus cutting it fine if we want to see the women’s final kick off), it has the bonus of at least getting us seats….while several folk couldn’t even get on the train at Huddersfield. ‘Don’t worry, there’s another service in 20 minutes.’ With a rugby league World Cup final to get to, from the heartlands of rugby league (the M62 corridor) what chance this next service also being full, coming from Leeds?

Armed with our lunch (Greggs’ festive bakes, the very best thing about Xmas) we’d got off at Oxford Road and decided to walk along the Bridgewater Canal. It was a beautiful sunny day, a second consecutive weekend, surely a Mancunian record. It was lovely, up and down the cobbles, seeing various barges and towards Old Trafford itself, seeing the tram bisect the Bridgewater and Manchester Ship Canals. A far cry from my only previous visits to Old Trafford, both 97/98, where my abiding memories were of a Bladerunner-esque urban hell of darkness, empty car parks, disused factories, with oil drum fires only adding to the sense of forboding. These days, it’s all plush architecture, no more exemplified than by ‘Hotel Football’ adjacent to Old Trafford.

My partner, a little more open to the idea of watching ‘sport’ (as opposed to football) than me, was eagerly looking forward to her first Old Trafford experience. So that lasted the 5 minutes we nosed around outside before making our way in, keen to see the opening women’s game. No, we can’t come in with our bags. Hers, an average ladies’ handbag, mine, a satchel around A4 size. ‘Can I bring a plastic bag in?’ I inquired. (My satchel could easily fold up and be put in a plastic bag.) ‘Errr…..no.’ However, it seems ok to enter with a plastic bag if it’s from the Old Trafford Superstore, teeming with merchandise ill-spent. (We’d looked in from outside; it is the size of Sports Direct.) My partner enquired where we’d been told these regulations, where they were written, etc. I think she blamed me….till meeting other like-minded individuals (females) horrified to discover that daring to travel from Ireland and being up at 5 was no excuse for bringing a handbag to Old Trafford. All concerned had no choice but to find a portacabin 5 minutes away to queue up, pay a fiver and hope to luck that your bag was still there afterwards as their legal blurb said anything was ‘left at the owner’s risk’. Still, it’s donated to charity, so the Manchester United foundation, or whatever it’s called, gets to be seen as the good guys. I wonder how much is donated via this manner, as a percentage of what they make through sponsorship deals, et al? Of course, I put my partner’s bag inside mine.

Jumping to full-time, we left the game a few minutes early to avoid what would be outrageous queues to claim our possessions. Also, we hoped to be on an early train back to the city centre and be on the first train back, beat the rush. We headed towards Piccadilly, where the train started. Good job. One of the first there, we were two of the lucky few hundred who squeezed onto a service headed for York. 3 carriages. THREE. On a day when many thousands would be seeking to head back to Yorkshire from the rugby, or Christmas shopping, or all-day drinking (there seemed to be quite a bit of that). Apparently, it should have been 6 carriages, an exasperated driver having seen it all before, railing (forgive the pun) against his bosses who’d made the dubious decision to take them off. ‘Apologies for the disaster that is this service’. I got a seat at Leeds, lucky me.

Onto York, where the train was over half an hour late. But at least it arrived – the service to Liverpool Lime Street was cancelled and the next one, nearly 2 hours later, was being cut short at Manchester Airport. This in a weekend where there ISN’T a rail strike. (That’s next Saturday.) Train arrives, onwards to Darlington, then Durham…but hold on. It’s announced the train will be going to Newcastle ONLY. The display board confirms it. Hang on, you can’t simply MISS OUT a destination previously advertised. If we’d known, we could have got a different train from York. As it is, we’ll be landing in Newcastle after the last train fro Durham has departed. A bus leaves after midnight, which might be an option, given the cost of a taxi 20-odd miles from Newcastle. As it is, our stress and anger is wasted, as the train DOES stop at Durham. After the day we’ve had, I treat us to a taxi. £27 for 7 miles. I’d have needed to re-mortgage to get a taxi from Newcastle.

The match(es)? We walked the several staircases up the Sir Alex Ferguson Stand to our seats. Decent view of the pitch. We were high, but you could still make out individual players. But the rest of the stadium? We could just about see the lower tiers of the other stands, as the front of the monstrous roof was lower than our seats. (We moved seats at half-time, front of the upper tier, a wise move given there was NO-ONE in the central block. Why sit 3 rows from the back, with more of a view of the ROOF than the main event? Others joined us as the men’s game kicked off.) Yes, I’m not impressed with Old Trafford. Either I’ve a view of the roof (upper tier) or I’m in an away end with seats that I found cramped as a CHILD. ‘Theatre of Dreams’ my bottom.

The match was a hammering, as the ‘Jillaroos’ (terrible nickname) of Australia beat New Zealand 54-4. The loudest cheer was for the Kiwi try. Throughout this tournament there’s been a lot of love for the underdog, as fans recognise the development of the game in non-traditional far-flung countries. I’d have hoped for a closer game, but the Aussie game was too fast and powerful for a weak defence. Full-time, the players celebrated, a podium was built and trophy awarded to a backdrop of tickertape and flamethrowers. Then it was the men’s turn.

The Toa Samoa (men’s national team) were making their first ever appearance in a world cup final and like the New Zealanders and Papua New Guineans (?) we’d seen earlier in the competition, they had their own war dance, the Siva Tau. They were right in the Aussies’ faces and got the crowd going. Despite beating England with a golden point drop goal last week (27-26), the crowd were firmly in their favour. Well, it IS Australia. Cue pantomime booing of the Kangaroos at any opportune moment.

However, it wasn’t to be. After a couple of minutes defending, Australia scored with their first attack and rarely looked back. 14-0 at the interval, Samoan hope was extinguished when Australia ran in a try despite having a man sin-binned, 6 minutes into the second half. 20-0 down, Samoa showed some fight and managed a couple of tries in a 30-10 defeat. But we’d gone by then. We had a handbag to pick up.

The Damage:
£42 travel
£50 ent
£8 programme
£5 red wine (175ml) x 2 (The only ‘beer’ was Carling and Worthingtons. No thanks.)
= £110

The Tunes:
BBC 6Music (Radcliffe and Maconie)
The Downward Spiral (Nine Inch Nails)

ps, it was lovely to share a tram back into town with those cheeky chappy Leeds fans. ‘We are Leeds, we are vile, Mason Greenwood’s a paedophile*.’ Almost as charming as ‘Jimmy Savile, he’s one of our own’ which we also had to ‘enjoy’. Yes, it’s really great they’re back in the Premiership, as the media keeps telling us.

*actually, that’s not what he’s been charged with, so get it right.