The Travelling Hordes

Bryn Jones is a Racecourse steward. He's based in and around the Eric Roberts Builders Stand, so he gets a fantastic insight into the psyche of visiting fans...

No.14 CARDIFF

Scene: A miserable afternoon in Splott, Cardiff, the day after Cardiff City visited their country cousins in distant Wrexham. A nice but dim journalist has been looking for a 'vox pop' interview and has stumbled across Ivan Davies, twenty-something resident of our wonderful capital city.

J: "So, you come from Cardiff then, Ivan. You must hate the English then, well, fair enough. So you must like your fellow Welshmen, I suppose."
I: "No, not really, I hate them bloody North Walians. Scousers the bloody lot of them. They're not Welsh really. They're only born there and speak it, like. Not enough Tom Jones records in their collections, see."
J: "OK. Fine. So you only like your fellow South Walians, then?"
I: "Well no. Not really. 'Cos we 'ate the Swansea see. No, I mean we really 'ate them - even more than the English and North Walians."
J: "So, who do you like, then? Just Cardiff, I suppose."
I: "Well, yeah, although I've 'ad a few fights with the lads from Penarth, see, cos they're not like us. Not really."
J: "Why not?"
I: "Well, not sure, really. I mean I seen one of them wearing a brown coat once, see, not a black one like me. Oh, and 'e 'ad a moustache."
J: "But, you've got a moustache."
I: "Yeah, but 'is was a darker brown than mine. And 'e wasn't drunk like me, ******' weirdo. An' 'e kept laughing like."
J: "At you?"
I: "No, at Victoria Wood, English tart. I mean, what's 'e doin' laughing at her and not Max Boyce, or somebody proper, I thought. So, I 'it 'im."
J: "So, you only really like people in your own street?"
I: "Oh bloody 'ell no. I hate my street. Bloody always fightin' all of them. *****!"
J: "Well. That only really leaves your wife and kids, then."
I: "Bloody cow. Little *******. No, I 'ate my wife. She's ran off with a man from…Oh God, I can't admit this…"
J: "Go on, nobody's reading this, anyway. Who did she run off with?"
I: "Oh, it's no good. I've got to face up to it. She ran off with a……..with a……..bloody cardy!"
(He breaks down, utterly distraught now).
J: "You mean she ran off with a woolly piece of clothing?"
I: "No, you bloody clown. I mean one of them other inferior types of Welshmen. Ones who come from Cardigan. Said I drank too much.
(Gasps of disbelief from onlookers).
I mean the whole world hates me. Why? WHY? Why can't I beat my wife, wreck other people's towns, abuse their stewards, fight their police, shout during their one-minute silences, **** in their doorways, scratch their cars, do unspeakable things to their sheep. Why, why, why?"
J: "I see. I must admit I thought it was only Irish people who got drunk and then fought and then cried uncontrollably."
I: "Ah, the Irish. Wonderful people. Know how to drink and fight and…what else did you say…?"
J: "Cry."
I: "…and cry. Oh, wonderful criers, the Irish. Duw, butt, wonderful criers."
J: "And don't they play rugby, too?"
I: "What? What did you say? 
(Interviewer steps back as Ivan moves towards him, eyes ablaze, before falling over and then looking heavenwards).
…Irish ********. Coming over here and beating us at rugby. And on our own pitch too. You ********! 
(He sticks two fingers up in the direction he thinks is Dublin. He has stuck them up in the direction of Newport instead. Somebody points this out).
******' Newport! (he roars). ******' Newport! Livin' right by England. You miserable buggers."
J: "So that only really leaves the Jolly Jocks?"
I: "******' Joe Jordan...cheatin', World Cup…"
J: "The Yanks?"
I: "Who they? Live in bloody England, I suppose. Never 'ear of 'em on Ray Gravell's show. Ah, Ray Gravell, what a man." (He bows)
(The crowd joins in, only they think he's bowing to Sam Hamann). 
Crowd: "Ah, Sam Hammam. A true Welshman. We salute thee."
(They take it up as a mantra, bowing and chanting in unison)
J: "So, how about your mother, then?"
(Silence. Then somebody shouts out from the crowd. "She was from Ipswich!" Gasps from the crowd. Our Ivan glares. A family secret that only the whole street knows has finally been voiced. Ivan staggers towards the informant, stares at him defiantly, and declares to the enraptured throng).
I: "Yes, but she met my dad on the 5.15 to Blackwood!"
Man in crowd: "Aye, and she never bloody saw him again!"
(At this the whole crowd erupts into a massive flailing, drunken brawl with passers-by and sundry bored youths joining in, in true Celtic style, with a passion and fervour once reserved for chapel, male voice choirs and illicit couplings behind the local memorial. Soon after, down at police HQ, Cardiff Central, a bored police sergeant looks up towards a constable coming towards to his desk). 
Sergeant: "Anything happening down in Splott, Harris?"
H: "Well sir, there's a load of people kickin' hell out of each other outside the Shirley Bassey."
S: "No, I said is there anything happening down in Splott, Harris?" 
H: "No, sarge. Not really."

No.15 STOKE

So, it was Cardiff City 29 Stoke City 0. To what is he referring to, you may ask. A rugby score? Corners gained against us? No, no and twice no. I shall leave you guessing to the end, but I'll give you a clue in that it refers to the difference in behaviour of both sets of fans on their recent visits to us. 
Both sets of fans have caused us much trouble in recent years (I hear your gasps of astonishment, but it is, sadly, true, my friends). However, I have to report that Stoke's 2,700 fans were in a completely different league from Cardiff's 2,200 in the preceding match. They were, in fact Little Red Angels compared to Cardiff's ******' B*** B*******, sorry Blue Devils. I mean, what if Cardiff had lost, instead of winning 3-1? 

"Daddy, why is the sky red over Wrexham?"

"It is because Wrexham town is burning, my little child"

"But why is Wrexham burning, my learned father?"

"It is because Cardiff City lost their football match there, my son. It is the way of things"

"So, good father, why is there a little patch of red over Corwen as well? Did Penycae also lose their football match?"

"No, my son. Some of the Cardiff fans came without maps, that is all"

By the way, going back to the numbers of fans referred to above, before the match, we were told that Stoke had sold 2,700+ tickets, while Wrexham had sold 3,000+ (well done, lads). But, at the end of the match, the official attendance was given as 5,400+. Now, in my mathematical world this is 300 less than the number of tickets sold. I will have to ask Colin, our Security Manager, what all this means (yes, he does still speak to me, despite rumours to the contrary).
Fair does to Stoke, then, who, in the ground at least, caused us no real problems at all. They were pretty sound all round. The usual happened, though. I was chatting away to the regulation friendly guy before the game. I was just about to ask him which of the Five Towns he came from (presumably not Burslem, of course, home of arch-rivals Port Vale) when he told me that he had been living in Gresford for the past twenty years or so. Glad to report that his Gresford-born son is a keen Robins fan, though. Actually, I have a mate in Chester who is a Stoke fan. Mind you, he is also a keen Everton fan and Chester fan as well. Weird that. Talk about hedging your bets.

"Right, Mr Ladbroke, I want a quid each way on Red Rum, Arkle and Mill Reef in the next race."

"But, they are the only three in the race, sir."

"So?"

Imagine if football teams were like racehorses. Liverpool would be Red Rum…natch. Man U could be Arkle. Chester City, of course, could be Shergar…as in dead and buried years ago! (Yeees, like it!).

Back to Stoke fans. So friendly were they that even the Dragonettes were able to perform in front of them. Yes, there was the odd shout of "Get your **** out!", but as soon as we told the young copper off, he stopped doing it. The Stoke fans cheered the girls off, which was really great, but I stand by my words from the Blackpool reflections - that this would be the exception and not the rule. The Stoke fans were brilliant with the kids' football team who came over as well. This is more normal. Most fans forget their moron persona in these situations and return to being the dads, sons and workmates of their usual persona. 

I suspect they would have observed any two-minute silence as well, had there been one. All football fans are fantastic at observing these, even when they are for relatively unknown local dignitaries. When they are for Remembrance Day, there is no question they will be observed with great respect and dignity. So, who was that amoeba at the Cardiff game who shouted, swore and spat his way through the silence that day. And why didn't somebody shut him up?
On Sunday, 4th November, 2200 Cardiff fans broke 29 seats in the Marston Stand. On Saturday, 23rd November, 2,700 Stoke fans broke no seats in the Marston Stand. "One nil to the Sheepshaggers!"

No.16 NORTHAMPTON

Bloody 'ell. Didn't they get angry? You see, if your player elbows a member of the opposition in the face and gets sent off it's because the referee is a total ******, innit? Also, if your goalie is injured in a 50/50 it's 'cos the other player is an "animal", natch. And, oh my God, when the guy who misses penalties from 12 yards suddenly blasts a match-winning free kick from 25 yards - RIGHT IN FRONT OF YOU -it's because he's a tart. Even worse he is the son of that moanin' Jock who manages a club we're are all jealous of. And when the referee goes and books five of your players and only one of the winning team's, then it's obviously all the fault of the stewards, or maybe, the linesman, or the pitch or, or…or, no, please don't tell me this…I don't want to hear this, no…

"Yes, my son, I am afraid it is true. Although it may pain you to hear this. you lost because your players were *****. The other lot were better. Yes, I know they were Welsh, but it has happened. It is there in black and white. You are next to bottom and they are now next to next to bottom. 
In fact, nearby, was a man who disagreed violently with you. He may have stood there impassively like a gigantic yellow blancmange, but inside he was a raging inferno who had to wait until he got outside to vent his wrath upon other motorists and his very nervous cat. That man is now getting his own back by writing this piece.

It is fair to say that my opinions, and those of the Northampton fans behind me, were about as close as little ol' Dubya's and his dusky friend Ozzie bin Vaporised. Those of my erstwhile sufferers in the Yale Paddock who remember me doing a rain dance every time Wrexham scored, or flying down to the fence after some English ******** had just clattered famous taffies like Seamus Heath or Ian Arkwright, would be amazed to see me now. For my own safety, I have to stand there totally impassive, totally neutral, probably totally dead, I think, sometimes.

And then, at the end, on Saturday, I had to listen to a gaggle of middle- aged women file past wittering "Bloody disgrace. Disgrace. Disgrace. Disgrace." Perhaps when turkeys are on their way to their even more desperate version of a stuffing, they, too, are not saying "gobble, gobble, gobble", but "It's a bloody disgrace, disgrace, disgrace." And it doesn't do them much good either, does it? However, I did not want the football version of Paxo up my ****, nor did I want big holes where said **** and head should be. So, in the presence of the Northampton fans, I smiled and shook hands with those who were still willing to do so at the end.

Luckily, Northampton are a smallish outfit like us, so their 200 or so fans contented themselves with shouting and jumping around for the most part. There was only one likely-looking lad. He was a standard issue wannabee thug viz. thirtysomething with a head like a boiled egg fitted with stubble and a scowl. And, unpleasant though he was, one guy does not a warband make. As for the majority, before they got overheated they were bemoaning the inevitable fate of smaller clubs and slagging off their great rivals. Their rivals are Peterborough, as I'm sure you know already. However, for many of their fans, Rushden are coming up rapidly on the rails.

And Rushden brings us to the rub of the matter for Northampton and us and all the little clubs like us. For what have Rushden got that Northampton haven't? I think you know the answer to this one as well. Unlimited funds from a wealthy chairman, that's what. You can understand their feelings. Imagine if Chester had been taken over by an honest millionaire instead of that procession of dodgy property dealers, a loony Yank and shady gentlemen from Scouseland? I think we would feel the same. Or, to put it in a way easily understood in Northampton, of course, the boot would be on the other foot. 
But, remember this, my claret-clad friends. We may well have reached a consensus on the effects of money on The Beautiful Game; still, as you wend your weary way back to Footwearland, believing you had been cheated by your inferior Celtic cousins, I am equally certain that there was nobody else to blame for what happened today except your players and our players. 

By the way, did you notice that our scorers were not "cheating Welsh yard dogs", as one of you so pleasantly put it, but an Englishman, an Irishman and a Scotsman.