I’m sorry folks but that could just about be it for me! The Portsmouth match has finally seen me reach the end of my tether, wherever that might be. Regular readers will know that in general I am supportive of Birmingham City Football Club and frown upon those who bitch and moan and complain about their lot clearly forgetting where we were only a few years ago but I have finally lost my head. I’m in melancholy central.
The whole Pompey day drove me mental. What the hell were we doing kicking off at 5:15pm? Who in their right mind would pay their hard earned cash to sit at home on a Saturday night and watch Going Nowhere Birmingham City v Who Cares Where They Go Portsmouth? In the sixty four games both teams had played this season they had scored a grand total of 72 goals, just over a goal per game! Someone at Sky Sports must have realised they had one more contracted obligation to show us both and went for it all in one go probably then going out for the night knowing they weren’t going to miss anything. They were right.
Don’t feel sorry for those who sat at home and watched it though, they only paid £6, whereas the rest of stumped up around a fifth of our weekly wages.
But it’s not just that. I apologise now for the entire morose diatribe that is this week’s rambling but I have to get it off my weedy chest.
I go through the turnstiles and I get searched. I sit over a hundred and twenty yards away from the away fans, not even Steve Backley could throw anything that far. Believe me they are well out of striking distance. Ooooh careful though, shock bloody horror I could have a bottle of pop with the top still on it secreted about my person. Perish the thought! What’s that all about? I’m in my thirties why can I buy a bottle of coke but can’t keep the lid? What the hell do they think I am going to do with it? Start a riot? I have scoured the internet but have not found one international incident caused by a plastic bottle top.
I stand there with my arms out like the Angel of the North whilst some young bored guy in a fluorescent jacket pats me down like I have a communicable disease. I look along the line in abject depression at the row of respectable middle aged men all performing the same ritual. Has anything dangerous ever been found? There is a big sign outside the ground with a list of banned items, no knives, no nuclear warheads, no anthrax etc. The clue is there.
My son goes to the shop to buy a Birmingham City wristband for £2 with two shiny pound coins only to be told he has to wait because they don’t have any change! I already feel like going home! If they could have told me there and then it was going to be a mind numbing nil-nil draw I would have gone and watched Ant and Dec!
I read the grotesquely over-priced and dull £3 match day programme and find on page fifty that there is going to be a special draw at half time to win tickets for the Liverpool match that took place on Tuesday 12th February. Apparently it’s to thank us! For two months ago?
I try to converse with the catering staff but after numerous attempts I give up and return to my seat. I did try pointing but that didn’t work either. I did succeed once but the hot pie was cold and the cold drink was warm. Oh and the till didn’t work!
My seat is a work of art. Only the brush strokes of Leonardo could do the view justice. The first time I sat in it I got emotional. But now it signals ninety minutes of having to listen to the most annoying irrational people walking this planet. It’s like looking at the Mona Lisa with tinnitus. They are oxygen thieves. They are not Birmingham City supporters. They are men, and they all are before someone accuses me of sexism, and clearly they go to the match to escape a place where they don’t get a word in. They are racist, abusive, their language is foul and their targets are the twenty three people on the pitch. The two worst swear words are used ad infinitum even in front of my eight year old daughter. Worst of all they know nothing about the beautiful poetic sport that I adore.
They don’t want footballers on the pitch they want robots. No player is allowed to make a mistake, no official is allowed to award a decision to the opposition and everything wrong with the club is encompassed in a few individual players who are mercilessly slaughtered from the moment we all start clapping in unison.
For example, against Pompey Matty Upson had little to do and was probably bored. Most of what he did was accomplished with ease and to be fair no one was playing well or for that matter looked interested. After an hour of possibly not even putting a foot wrong he sliced the ball out of play, accidentally of course, whereupon the ‘fan’ behind me launched to his feet and, spitting all over the rest of us, told Upson that he would be better off leaving the club now if he was going to play like that. I have removed the seemingly endless expletives from the original tirade!
Having said that though, the players themselves should not escape punishment. My season ticket is for every home game. I turn up every match and give it my best. I get prepared in time and know what my role is. What the hell gives our players the right to decide not to play for the last few matches of the season when they know they are safe? If they cannot be bothered to perform or to even look like they care (Melchiot excluded here!) then we should all be refunded our money and the opposition given a nil nil draw which is what most of them came for anyway. The club programme contained a noble statement regarding the maligned workers of Rover and some of the participants on the pitch should be reminded of what it is like to wonder how to pay the next bill.
If I renew my season ticket what guarantee is there that the squad will keep playing until the end of the campaign and earn the money I pay them? None whatsoever. Before anyone accuses me of jumping on the whinging bandwagon go and read my earlier articles, I have supported this team through thick and thin and all over the country in all the divisions and this comes after a run of a defeat a win and two draws.
It’s not just the results though. It’s the whole thing. It’s the poor catering, the poor programme, the poor displays, the moronic spitting of the idiots behind me and the two pieces of pond life throwing bricks at a car containing a Pompey fan on the Coventry Road.
It might be time to pick and choose my games and watch the rest on Sky Sports or wait until a minute before the end of MoTD to glimpse the highlights. To be fair though if you were the producer of the shows what bits would you have shown from the match last week?
I feel deeply sorry for Sullivan, the Golds and the other business people who have given so much to the club. The local radio stations are full of idiots criticising and demanding recriminations. Sullivan must feel like crying. I know I did on Saturday.
And to reward me for my unquestioning loyalty the cost of my season ticket is going up and my fourteen year old son will have to pay £237 to sit next to me. The same seat down the road would cost him just over £100. And then the club have promotions like ‘kids for a fiver’ a brilliant but unfair scheme that penalises the fools who stumped up their hard earned cash at the start of the season.
I know we want the best and I know we have to pay for it but at what cost? The driving away of the genuine fans and the recruitment of plebs who leave their brains behind when they go to a game but fortunately for the club can afford the tickets?
I might have to buy a new armchair.
Keep Right On, without me though cos I’m tired and weary.