Away day memories: ‘I survived Green Street, despite my friend’s shoes’
Eye Of The Tigers, a column by Sam Hawcroft
A fan’s thoughts on Hull City
As the news broke this morning that Grant McCann had won the League One Manager of the Month award for January, I looked at the general reaction of fans across social media – from bemusement and ridicule to even anger – and wondered, why is there so little love around for a head coach who has got us to second in the league?
City fans do love to moan, me included, admittedly, but it does seem that confidence in our gaining promotion seems to be wavering despite our lofty position.
We had a good January, only slipping up once at Accrington, but Oxford didn’t lose at all, gaining more points from fewer games, and their fans are aggrieved that Karl Robinson lost out to McCann.
We’ve since been a bit underwhelming; our time in the Pizza Cup is over, and we all cringed at the classic #TypicalCity against bottom club Burton Albion last Saturday.
Anyway, I feel it’s time for some levity, and a bit of nostalgia. Missing out on all these ground ticks has made me look back with even more fondness on away days gone by, so I thought I’d relate a few of my funniest stories in the hope they might spark some of your memories. Names might be changed to avoid embarrassment/lawsuits.
The original Roary the Tiger mascot (or, should I say, the guy inside the suit, but let’s just call him Roary) – now, he was a proper LAD. I reckon many people will have a story relating to him, but among the most memorable for me was the trip down to Hayes in 1999, in the second round of the FA Cup.
Roary went on the pitch during play, creeping up behind the opposition keeper just as he was about to take a goal kick, and gesturing as though he was going to squeeze his bottom. I believe that was the final straw for the ref that day, as Roary was “sent off”.
Away to Darlington at Feethams, on the way to the ground Roary passed me a two-litre bottle of clear fizzy pop. “Nah, I’m fine, cheers,” I said.
“Are you sure you don’t want some lemonade?” he said.
The penny dropped. I took a swig, and I did indeed detect a hint of lemonade in what tasted like almost neat vodka.
Before Christmas that year, Roary had the Boothferry Park crowd in stitches when he started goofing around behind the singing Reverend Allan Bagshawe, who was completely unaware of the mascot’s antics and thought the fans were more enthusiastic than they usually were about his festive carols.
And, in the Three Tuns post-match, the de-suited Roary was bemoaning the fact he had been sent off yet again, because his running up and down the touchline was so distracting that the referee kept flagging him offside. “I wouldn’t mind, but I was dead level!” Roary protested.
Fast-forward to our first season in the Premier League and I went to more away matches that year than I ever had before.
At Manchester United, I was in the away end among a mass of camera-wielding tourists, having lost out in the tickets “lottery” and paid an online tout silly money because there was no way I was missing out on the occasion.
Reining in the urge to celebrate when we scored three, during a mad game that ended 4-3 to United, required supreme self-control, and there were dozens of other City fans getting chucked out for being less able to keep a lid on it.
NOT FOR THE FAINT-HEARTED: The East Stand at Old Trafford
Away to West Ham the following January, somehow we ended up in the Queens pub next to the market in Green Street. We were in full colours and it was only after getting the beers in that we looked around us and wondered why we couldn’t see any other City fans. There didn’t seem to be any, anyway. Then we were surrounded.
Two or three tracksuit-wearing shaven-headed gentlemen approached (or should I say accosted) us and started up a bit of their trademark friendly-but-terrifying Cockney banter. This went on for a while, all the usual stuff about us having no chance that afternoon – and then one of them happened to glance downwards.
“WHHHAAAAAATTTTT?! What the hell are THOSE? What have you got on your FEET?!”
The friendly skinhead was referring to the shoes worn by my mate James, who was then a student and a fully paid-up member of the skinny-jeans-and-scuffed-slip-on-moccasins club back then. To dare to enter a West Ham pub wearing such scruffy indie garb was, he was soon to learn, a cardinal sin.
“You come in to MY PUB, wearing THOSE SHOES? Blaaaaaaady ‘ell…” (At this point you have to imagine he sounded like one of the Mitchell brothers.)
My brother and I were deemed perfectly acceptable because we were wearing the regulation Adidas trainers – but for the next hour (it seemed like longer), poor James was ragged almost solidly for his choice of footwear. “But his SHOOOOZ!! Look at his SHOOOOZ!” And on, and on, and on, it went. We’d never been so desperate to go to the match. Which, of course, we lost 2-0.
Upton Park tube station. Picture by Oxyman/Wikimedia Commons
I think the funniest incident happened on the way to our first-ever Premier League fixture at Liverpool. I was driving a couple of mates there, Harry and Matt, and I’d given Harry the unopened envelope with the tickets inside.
Not long after we’d set off, Harry asked if he could open it to have a peek at those precious tickets. “Yeah, sure,” I said, and he got them out and then put them on the dashboard.
A few minutes later, just as we hit the M62, the most noxious of aromas filled the car.
“Oh my god, Harry, that’s gross! Open the window! Open the bloody window!!”
He obliged, and quick as a flash… whooooosh – one of the Liverpool tickets flew out, never to be seen again.
“The tickets! Shut the window! Shut it, quick!” I screamed, while Harry pressed the window button and slammed his hands on the remaining tickets.
‘IT WAS THE STRANGEST WAY TO LOSE A TICKET, BUT WE STILL GOT IN’: Liverpool away in 2008
We all sat in silence for a few minutes.
“What… what can we do? Can we turn back?” said Harry.
“Turn back? That ticket’ll be in ruddy Gilberdyke by now!” I said. “Nah, it’s gone…”
More stunned silence followed until Matt decided to make a few calls. He had friends at university in Liverpool and eventually one of them managed to sort a ticket in the home end, so at least all of us would be able to get inside the ground.
Once that was established… I don’t think I’ve laughed for so long since. I must have laughed about it all the way there, tears streaming down my face for the full length of the M62. What a way to lose a Liverpool ticket.
The story arrived in Liverpool before we did, as when we got to the pub, people were telling us about the guy who’d let one go and saw his ticket follow it out of the car window…
Even when we arrived at Anfield, there was one final obstacle before we could witness the 2-2 draw in which McShane scored first and sent the away end wild. Harry, in an effort to save a bit of money, had risked trying to get in on a child’s ticket. The Scouse steward eyed him suspiciously. “How old are you, son?”
“Sixteen,” said 6ft Harry, in a deep, not-very-childlike voice.
“And I’m the bloody Queen,” said the steward. “Go on, get in the ground, lad.”
Phew.