I was pleased that we beat Sheffield Wednesday yesterday. Of course, I hear you think. You're a Town fan. Any win against the opposition should delight. This, though, felt strangely cathartic.
The international fortnight, once a chance to showcase our league one club on the telly and in the papers because it was the only footy that Sky could promote, besides Great British union qualifiers which didn't include England and therefore seemed purposeless to those who didn't sport Scotch or Welsh accents, was suddenly back to being an irritant. A chance for our better players to suffer injury in the fruitless pursuit of qualification points. Thank God it was a warm weekend.
The early morning mist hung in boughs around the fields, dampening the longer grasses and adding crystals to spider webs. The trees were slowly turning; like kebab spits in a recently opened takeaway window. The leaves crisped and curled and fell gracefully, spinning in the air. I saw my exhaled breath in plumes, shimmering as it dissolved. The air promised heat, but this was probably the very last of it before autumn proper kicked in and the nippiness started, along with the darker morns and nights and the cheap Halloween masks and the wasteful fireworks.
Sheffield Wednesday are a reminder of the dark days. In a league where, after 4 years of slumming it, every Championship regular feels like a novelty, Wednesday are the anachronism. A team who we should've beaten in League One but drew with twice, once unluckily away last season, once fortuitously (although that's arguable) at home. They are the anachronism because they have well-known but old players; yer Barry Bannans and yer Josh Windasses and yer Callum Patersons. Players who inhabit that dusky world of the once decent but now getting on a bit, still capable of causing pain but you wouldn't have them at Town. No way. At their age? Might as well have kept Emyr Huws and Freddie Sears.
Wednesday are starting to realise this as well. A summer recruitment campaign that resembled a game of 'Pin the Tail on the Donkey' ended with former Watford blink-and-you'd-missed-him stalwart Xisco Munoz selecting several cheapish foreign imports with the zeal of a child being let loose in Poundland with a fiver and told to buy treats. Their owner, Dejphon Chansiri, always a laugh when asked to do press conferences as much for his pidgin grasp of the King's English as for his latent narcissism, seems to be hard-pushed on the financial front. Perhaps he never really wanted promotion? His side certainly did their best to arse it up for him last season.
So they've started appallingly. But it's still a nasty trip. A stadium which resembles the Queen Mary ship, abandoned, rusting, but magnificent if you enjoy Edwardian architecture and pay your homage to the ghosts of the 96 from '89 (RIP) in the much-changed Leppings Lane away end. They still bite up here. There's still a banana skin ready to slip on for the over-confident or the unwary. Fortunately, we were neither yesterday.
Terry couldn't make it. He can't make Hull on an early October Tuesday either so is 'lookin' inter tradin' me ticket in, like'. He flies to the Spanish sun on the 29th for a fortnight. We've booked Trongs for Blackburn next Saturday. Hopefully we won't be cancelling this time. I've grown very fond of their crispy chilli beef.
I only went because someone I know couldn't and therefore I handed over the best part of forty quid for my first away trip of the campaign. It helps to know other fans this season, especially the ones who can't make a game. Tel reckons he might have a contact for the Middlesbrough game in December. It seemed easier to just buy two when they're out, but neither of us are away-gamers and the novelty hasn't worn off yet.
I left the house at 6.45am and did the usual drive to Huntingdon (she's no longer living there, my former beau) and joined the A1, which was nice and quiet for a major motorway. The sky was the colour of a wood pigeon's belly and the McDonalds drive-thru I stopped at dispensed food the colour of army khaki. The egg in my Sausage McMuffin looked like a witch's tit, but it was tasty, as most fast food can be at eight on a Saturday morning. The less said about the hash brown, the better, but the pancakes I greedily ordered on a whim were fluffy.
I entered Yorkshire via a detour around Doncaster and then up to Sheffield. Parked, paid a tenner for their all-day option, went for coffee. Just after 10.30am. Four and a half hours to kick off, no prospect of a pre-match pint. Coffee was the order. That and a cursory look around the city centre, particularly Waterstones in the Orchard Square. Bookshops suit me. I know it's not a library, but everyone treats it as such, unless you're only in for a few greetings cards.
I managed to wear out a whole three hours thus absorbed. By 1.30pm, I fancied another coffee and a fag so sat on the outside tables at a nearby coffee shop and ignored the temptation of a Cinnamon Bun with my milky-foamed Americano. The caffeine left me feeling like I used to feel on the old Vodka Red Bulls when Paula and I went out clubbing, back in the days when the old love life was certain, if a little daunting and before it all headed south with the rapidity of a Wes Burns run. The memory made me a bit sadder, albeit in a light-headed energised way.
Hillsborough loomed in the afternoon haze. The seats were a bit crap but the view was alright. The home supporters weren't happy. A bad start, combined with a few mutterings in 'Last of the Summer Wine' accents of bad ownership and worse managers who they couldn't abide. Still, they genuinely thought they'd win yesterday. "Enternational brayyke should've sorted os" said one I met as I walked, an older chap sporting a wind cheater and smoking a rollie, carrying what looked like a thermos wrapped in a Morrisons bag. His son (?) nodded mutely, eyeing my southern yokel accent with uncertainty as I wasn't wearing colours. "Are ya Ipswich" asked his father as we parted. I nodded. "Aye, well wunt wish yer look or owt, probably won't need it cos yer a decent team". I nodded thanks as he dismissed me at the traffic lights, his son still mutely eyeing me with perplexed menace.
The game? Well, we won. Should've won by quite a bit more than one goal, but this was a minor disappointment on an otherwise great afternoon. Wes played well, as did Chappers and Massimo and George Hirst should've scored at least two. Man of the Match was Leif, who sadly suffered an injury. He was immense on the left. True, they let him go several times but the space he exploited was mind-blowing in it's ineptness from the home defence. Wednesday will be making a return to the doldrums of League One based on yesterday. A team who just went through the motions without ever appearing a threat in any way. Still, Munoz must be used to quick sackings. His last job in this country was at Watford.
I arrived back home at just before nine. Got the Glenmorangie out and battered it further. It was an evening for a whisky. Phone checked for messages, none apparent, so relax and watch MOTD with my smelly feet not annoying or causing remark from a beloved. A good end to a good day. Now for the housework, after I've demolished the sunday papers and had a slice of toast. Perhaps a pub lunch later when I've done the washing?
Enjoy folks. At least we're not Wednesday, eh? |  |
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