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| It actually started last Saturday in the Golden Lion. After the commiseration, beer and despair the singing started. This was not football singing as most of us know it - this was a cross between the marching troops of WW2 and a gospel choir with Chutzpah. Certainly nothing that ever sang itself out of the Welsh hills could compete with it. The volume was high in both decibels and soul and we left the pub to a rendition of 'the Chelsea bombers' which could detach several layers of skin from any eardrum and rend the hearts of Fulham fans for a twenty mile radius. The Fulham family aren't going down with a whimper.
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During the week the pundits, with only one notable exception, all wrote us off. Talksport (affectionately and accurately known as talksh!te) had us down for their weekend banker and a 3-0 defeat. Even on the BBC I heard them say 'Fulham have nothing left and they will be going down with Bolton who they came up with seven years ago'. Several pundits however were genuinely upset and mourned that the tradition and beauty of the Cottage would be lost to the Premiership. Only Alan Hansen, probably enlightened on the motorway last week by Keefy, said he expected something from us and wouldn't be surprised if we turned it around. He had either, unusual for these 'experts', done his homework or he knows us well.
An unusual travelling party gathered at Dorking station. All of the oldies were at family gatherings and Keefy was in Stuttgart for his best mates 60th birthday. When last heard of he was on the outside of half a bottle of schnapps and feeling very little pain but still managed to call and remind me to text him the scores. Mikey and I were the sole beneficiaries of three gold dust tickets to one of the few sell out away games of the past few seasons. Late on Friday afternoon Richard could bear it no longer and cancelled his hot date to come with us so the third ticket found a good home.
Fletcher (the name will be familiar from the photos of the '06 yank expedition in your gallery) had a gift for Keefy so arranged to come down to Dorking on the train and travel to Reading with Mikey and I. His friend Chris also joined us so at the designated time I parked in the sunshine outside Dorking Deepdene and three happy bodies fell out of the Station tavern and woke up the local residents with their joyful greetings. Chris turned out to be a delightful six foot Australian with blonde dreadlocks, relatively new to FFC but fitting in very well. Unfortunately I had forgotten to swap cars with Keefy before he departed for Germany so the three of them squashed into my tiny car whilst cheerfully assuring me that they had got eight in Fletchers wife's Clio before now.
Keefy and Richard have a goal prediction system involving Ferraris and Maseratis and Fletcher had bought him a car mascot Ferrari which we balanced on the back parcel shelf for luck. I think it will be going to all away matches now. I can't remember laughing so much on an away trip - despite the cramped conditions the alcohol and the anticipation were working just fine and Fletcher regaled us with wonderful stories of Fat Freddy's cat, Nicky Gadd and his brother Robin on past away trips.
We stopped at a pub just outside Guildford for much needed refreshments and called Richard who lives nearby - a sleepy voice assured me was up and dressed and he would make it to the game and meet us there.
Approaching junction 11 my mobile rang - I threw it into the back of the car for Mikey to answer and after a brief tussle Fletcher got to it first and launched into drunken banter with the caller. Fortunately it wasn't my Mother on the receiving end, not that she would have been thrown by the language, more that she is a staunch Watford fan and would have given as good as she got! The caller however was Kcat who had travelled with Big Mama and was trying to arrange a meeting point. A raucous few minutes ensued as she engaged with both Fletcher and Mikey and Big Mama (who is a 5' 3" tiny redhead by the way) joined in at the other end.
The enormous and arguably beautiful wind turbine which towers over the Madejski came into view and the roundabouts and exit lanes of the M4 gave way to the industrial landscape of outer Reading. This is an area similar to Derby but far less attractively organized, the Madejski stadium is the centre of a sprawl of warehouses, factories and retail outlets built in a tangle of busy roads. Reading has become the poor relation of Bracknell and Wokingham where the residents of the wealthy silicone valley choose to live. The M4 side of Reading has several vast low cost housing projects with their accompanying social issues and the bulk of the Reading fan base is from these areas. This is a truly local club, it has no neighbours and therefore no local derby matches and no-one travels far to support them.
We parked in the same place as last year, almost to the day, looking back it seems impossible that so much could have happened since we were here last April. I can hardly bear to go back and read the Witch report from that match and hear the optimism I felt then. Walking away from the yellow leviathans I remembered to ask what Kcat had wanted on the phone and discovered I was supposed to meet her at the Pizza Hut we had passed five minutes earlier. On trying to call her back I discovered that my phone was still in the back of the car where they had left it and that no-one else had her number *sigh*. I should be used to them by now.
The atmosphere built as we rounded the stadium towards the away end - familiar faces were greeted with shoulder slaps and hugs. Fletch in his natural habitat walked with arms raised and chanting as he went and Mikey soon joined in, Chris and I pretended not to know them and bemoaned the lack of toilet facilities in Reading in particular and England in general. I was surprised to see a fairly hefty police presence and an awful lot of stewards, Reading are obviously sceptical of our new status at the top of the fans league.
Inside the concourse it was a heaving jam of bodies and beer spillage. Chris proved a wonderful land mark as his golden dreadlocks were a good four inches above the sea of heads and I found them all fairly easily after the requisite inspection of the facilities. Alan Hoops, Dirk Lehmans Diggler and Ormondroyd joined the message board coterie and there was a buzz I haven't felt in a long time as more fans joined us.
On my way to our seats there was a joyous reunion with Kcat and Big Mama and we joined the serenade for the players warming up on the pitch. As the crowd took their seats the players waved back to their own songs and Jimmy and Brian were greeted with a roar as the stadium rang to 'Jim Bullard Bullard, he's faster than Steve Gerard, and thinner than Frank Lampard, Jim Bullard Bullard.' (To the tune of Que sera sera).
The players responded eagerly to the noise and the big travelling support. The change on the pitch was almost visible as shoulders lifted and heads came up and they responded to us with waves and applause. The warm up in the corner below us became more animated. We clapped them back to the dressing room and we roared when they returned onto the pitch in their black and red.
I was pleased that Liam got a round of applause from the Fulham fans when his name was called out - like many I was very fond of him and gutted when Sanchez lost him.
The weather was as contrary as only an English April can be. The rain came down in sheets as the game started though the blue sky over the rim of the stadium was in stark contrast to the downpour immediately above us. The visibility got worse as the rain turned into a hail and then, as suddenly as a light switch, turned off and into sunshine. On the pitch Healy and Mcbride were resuming their old relationship and the understanding between them was almost tangible. Dempsey and Davies picked up on it and read it well and Bullard, as usual, was everywhere. There was sublime pass in from Davies and Brian slotted it home in classic McGod style. The noise was phenomenal, as you will hear on the MOTD replays and the fans went absolutely wild.
Just before half time Reading threw everything at us, the play became ragged and desperate, we all held our breaths and knew that if they equalized before half time it would all be over. It was the most dangerous time and my heart was in my mouth. By the time the whistle went my neck muscles were so knotted I had to take two neurofen with my half time cuppa to clear the resulting headache. Big Mama and Kcat came to join me, no mean feat as the Madejski is so steep that going up five rows is like mountain climbing. The delightful Maca, who I have typed to on the message board for many seasons, came to meet me for the first time. I love the message board group, it is such a peculiarity to get to know someone so well without knowing anything of them and the pleasure when you meet in person is heart warming.
The players and fans returned and Hahnemann walked towards the goal in front of us to a round of applause. The second half began rather like the first half ended with a brief period of desperate aerial slogging and near misses. The choir were thoroughly enjoying their first lengthy concert of 'How sh!te must you be, we're winning away' and moved on to sing 'the inter-toto we won it one time' the same tune seamlessly turned into 'we hit it three times, we hit it three times, that feckin cross bar, we hit it three times.'
Coppell threw three subs into the match, we had caught him by surprise as he admitted in the post match interview and perhaps he should have listened to Alan Hansen. We all caught our breath as three pairs of fresh legs bolstered the blues but they made little difference. Our players heads were up, they scented victory. Their confidence grew as they played the best football of the entire season and their crowd was 110 percent behind them. There was no way they could lose with that much energy flowing onto the pitch. With ten minutes to go you could have cut the tension with a knife and buttered it. The dancing Texan was everywhere. Dempsey had obviously decided that regardless of the other 21 guys on the pitch he was going to have a good day. He disappeared into a throng of four blue hoops on the right, danced with each of them and emerged coming towards us with the ball at his feet - the fans went wild with delight 'he scores with his left, he scores with his riiiiiiight, our boy Clint Dempsey makes Drogba look sh!te' we roared it to the rafters and he picked us up and took us with him as he threw his body time and again at the Reading forwards.
Two free kicks, Bullard lining up, and Mikey sitting with his head in his hands as he couldn't bear to watch, then next minute he is up and screaming with the rest 'Heeelay - heeelay - heeelay'. Healey went off to rapturous applause and his name ringing round the stadium. Nevland came on like a man who wanted a shirt - we were apprehensive, we don't really know him yet, we weren't apprehensive for long though. Dempsey went off to his song and Boca came on to his. The resounding chorus of 'Do do do oh do the Bocanegra' must have baffled the few remaining Reading fans.
The idiot referee called four minutes final injury time - how he got four minutes was a mystery - we were dismayed and there was quite a bit of angry shouting. We have lost points so often at the end of matches that it was hard not to feel a bit daunted. The Viking however didn't need four minutes, he only needed two, I held my breath as he came towards goal though there was no doubt whatsoever where that ball was going. That will go down as one of the best goals I have ever experienced, Richard and Michael just stood and screamed, everyone round us was either whooping and jumping or weeping and hugging. I haven't experienced anything like it since we won at Old Trafford. The Reading fans, already seriously depleted, left in their droves and three sides of the stadium were almost empty when the final whistle blew. I am running out of adjectives to describe the noise so just add another ten per cent to what I already wrote. The players gave only cursory courtesies to the Reading players and came over to stand with us, it was the closest we have felt to them for a long time. McBride, Bullard and Stalteri came over and threw their shirts into the crowd - we stood singing and clapping as they all filed off the pitch. Keller went off last and we chanted 'USA USA USA' until he gave a last two armed salute and the pitch was empty.
Long after the pitch and the rest of the stadium was empty and the noise died down we just stood talking together. Nobody wanted to leave and most of us were still there when Bullard and a couple of other players came back out to warm down. McGod came out with bare feet to jog on the grass and we resumed singing to warm waves from the players. A final chorus and it was time to leave them to their warm down and the peace of the empty stadium - we filed out into the sunshine.
Walking back along the access road Fulham fans leaned out of cars and waved and shouted to us as they drove past, the carnival atmosphere not shared by the long queues of blue waiting for the Park and Ride buses back into town. Mikey, Fletch and Chris couldn't bear to leave and headed into town to find a pub with the other message boarders and only Kcat, Big Mama and I walked back to the leviathans with Southfield White and Kevin. At the cars Neil was hugged and kissed at least four times before we could finally tear ourselves away.
I followed them up to the motorway with Keefys' red Ferrari now in pride of place on the dashboard, in front of me a Fulham flag fluttered from one side of Big Mammas car and on the other a blawhiscarf streamed like a banner in the wind as we picked up speed towards the M4 and home.
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Posted by: WhiteWitch on Sunday, April 13, 2008 - 03:12 AM
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