She’s a cruel mistress, but we’ll be back!

It was a big day for Exeter City on Sunday, our 3rd trip to the not so new Wembley and a Division I play off final against Blackpool. As the two times before we all met at the Green Man pub, a short walk from the venue. It is a wash with red and white, cider songs and old faces which always pop up on these occasions.   As the years pass everyone gets older but a new generation of Grecians who are running round in Ollie Watkins replica shirts and painted faces will hopefully take up the reins like their fathers before them. For my sins the first time I watched Exeter City I supported Brentford and it’s been a right of passage since to be chastised by Pete who never lets me forget. He’s City to the core and like most of my mates there we met at Exeter college. I’ve also dragged along my mate Ryan who lives on our block, whose happy to become an honourable Grecian for the day. Built like a brick shit house he’s volunteered for caring duties and the big push to and from the stadium. There is a spirit of excitement and confidence permeating around the grounds of the pub as more cider flows and the sun shines. Most of us anticipate a victory as a Fez is added to my head, which is impossible to lose – I’m the joker in the pack as we troop off down the hill towards the mother ship of football. City have brought about fifteen thousands fans but Blackpool have stayed away on mass due to an ongoing spat with the owner of the club. Subsequently the short walk to the stadium is quite eerie as there are not a lot of people about besides of the noticeable amount of police officers and security due to the Manchester bomb. Our entrance gate becomes bottle necked as supporters are forced to queue but we avert the worst of it reaching the disabled entrance. My bag is searched and labelled and threatened with destruction if found alone and my Fez is checked for a concealed weapon. As I glance sideways my fellow supporters and friends are being subjected to body searches reserved for high security prisons. I break free and head for out gate with electioneering thoughts rushing through my brain. Wembley is three quarters empty and but everyone seem to make it to their seats in time for kick off and Blackpool’s early goal. A cacophony of moans cascade down the rows of seats  at our porous defence which had gone to sleep, but we’re all soon back on it screaming ‘Come on City’. Things improve as the half progresses and we start to recover. A few half chances finally culminate in a goal 5 minutes before the break, David Wheeler skillfully chipping the advancing keeper to send us all into seething ‘ou-r-ring’ melt down. Half time gives the opportunity to catch up with more old buddies one of whom gasses on about an old cassette he’s found of us all tripping on LSD! I might be a phase long past but  I’m desperate to hear more but the teams are ambling back onto the pitch – well Exeter are. Blackpool on the other hand are going through a serious work out on the sidelines, fist pimping one another before returning to the pitch  and then we’re off. Well Blackpool are – forcing us onto the back foot for 20 minutes before inevitably scoring. The Alan Ball lookalike who prods the ball home runs the whole length of the pitch to celebrate with the Blackpool  massive, leaving us to stare blankly at defeat. City never look like recovering and even with our remarkable record of scoring late on we sense the season is over long before the death whistle from the referee puts us out of our misery.  Some of the lads fancy a curry afterwards but with no prep on where to go and the fact that Julie is cooking I decline.  For some reason we all go down Wembley way which is away from the grain towards three machine gun wielding police officers standing astride scanning us, a waiting tank in a side street. ‘Ever thought you’d been conned’ I bark at a friend as we pass and Ryan and I break for a walkway to escape the approaching stairs to the tube station.  As we ascend the path I hear the cries of ‘We’re never surrender’ and ‘it’s a conspiracy’ echo round, as I rise above the hype hearing Ryan’s methodical strides walking behind me. Our protracted route means we have to double back pitting our wits against Brent’s death trap pavements, several times I am nearly catapulted from my chair but thank fully we make it unscathed, Ryan lifting me into the car like I was his bitch. A near perfect journey back to Fulham avoiding the jams on the north circular via a cut through saw us park up on the estate inside 45 minutes. As with all journeys though it’s often the final hurdle that trips you up. A rapier of a spasm coursing through my legs as Ryan helped me out of the car, had my body rigid as a flagpole. Teetering on the edge of the chair with my trousers getting swept by gravity and my John Thomas making a show (I always go commando), he vainly wrestled to get me in the chair. Not helped by the brakes being un- engaged his efforts were further hampered by my bare arse slapping the chair away every time he tried to put me in it.  Norman Wisdom would have been proud of our efforts as I eventually succumbed to the ground sweeping up my trousers up in the process to regain my decency. Luckily Julie appeared from nowhere putting order into the proceedings, helping get everything ship shape and pouring me a glass of cider once in doors. It was a shame City had lost but football is a cruel mistress. It was though a good initiation of fire for Ryan. However big and strong you are nothing can break or beat those spasms they are truly worthy of Division I, just like Blackpool as it happens. I’m sure he’ll be ready, just like Exeter will be, next time they come calling.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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