I went to my first football match in over a quarter of a century this afternoon. My friend Danny invited me along to see his mediocre team Fulham play another mediocre team Liverpool. Last time I was inside a football stadium Liverpool were the greatest club in the country. Be reminded my friends that fame and success are fleeting.
As I was sitting with the Fulham fans I thought it would probably be a good idea to support Fulham. I am streetwise and clever and realise that any other course of action might have led to me having my head kicked in. But inside I knew I didn't really care who won, so I was going to be the only real winner here today. You know only me and the team that actually won. And all their supporters.
I was nervous of showing my essential football virgin status and also my total lack of real knowledge of the sport. It was difficult to know what to wear. I figured it would be cold so put on lots of layers and some big thick boots. As it was I was much too hot.
I thoroughly enjoyed the afternoon though. As I had suspected there is something spine tingling about being amongst thousands of people who are all cheering or gasping or chanting at the same time. Obviously I had experienced something quite similar with the 51 people who saw me in Bangor on Thursday, but it was different now as I was amongst the crowd rather than standing apart from them.
There was something reminiscent of the pantomime about the whole thing with the referee apparently playing his part very effectively by looking in the wrong direction at every important moment and seemingly making the wrong decision each time. He was a bit like one of those wrestling referees from off of the World Of Sport from the 1970s. I wondered if something like this could have been deliberately contrived; the working men on the terrace venting their spleen at the bald, prim, middle-class authority figure in the centre who always got it wrong. Were we all players in some semi-scripted drama? Had the players all worked out their moves and the ultimate outcome beforehand? Obviously people have occasionally genuinely been accused of this, but maybe it happens every week, but it's in no-one's interests to point out the truth.
It was also delightful to hear the out of shape slobs swearing at and criticising the highly fit atheletes on the pitch. "Go inside, go inside, Go inside" he doesn't and loses the ball, "Oh, I told you to go inside you wanker!"
Fantastic.
Being a professional footballer is an amazing job to get. I tried to work out if it was more cushy than being a comedian. Certainly the rewards are greater, but then you have to do more exercise. And the heckles are a lot worse. The passion you inspire in your supporters is a double-edged sword.
I was swept along with the crowd and found myself genuinely delighted when Fulham went ahead. Then punched the air when they went two up. Liverpool were all over the place and Fulham looked unstoppable. They maintained their lead up to the break.
But things went tits up in the second half as Liverpool fluked a terrible deflected goal and then pulled level with a better one. The mood of surprise and jubillation had shifted to one of resignation and disappointment. At leastat our end of the ground. A few thousand scousers were going mad at the other end. Until one of their cheats got sent off which tempered things a bit.
But Fulham were not to be stopped in their descent from heroes to zeroes. Like any club I was supporting (take a look at how York City are going at the moment) they were destined for humiliation. Liverpool had picked up and slotted in a free kick (which apparently was deflected as well) and then in the closing minutes got a great goal to round things off. The only consolation was that all six goals had been scored at our end. But I didn't point this out to the hard looking men sitting around me. I just tutted and made a "what can you do?" kind of face. See how streetwise I am. Learn from me.
We traipsed out of the ground with a river of dejected people in black and white. Their hopes raised and shattered. It's actually quite a pleasurable sensation in its own way. The first half had been the expectation of the knickerbocker glory and the second half had been the reality. Not for the Liverpool fans. Who I found myself properly hating for at least 15 minutes after the game.
It was all so highly charged and enjoyable.
Then like most of the other supporters I expect, I popped down to the South Bank to visit the Tate Modern. Yes, I am a true Renaissance Man. Whatever that means.
The football was best though.
