Dec 20th, 2009 by 'holic
Sweet baby Jebus, my head hurts. Make it go away. People expect me to write about yesterday. What the hell can I remember?
Just after two, arrive at the ground and buy the most expensive scarf on the planet and gloves for a mate on the Eurostar. Head for the pub. ‘Pint of Guinness please’. Mate texts. ‘We’re in the Italian’. Off I go . Pasta and a carafe of red wine. “My treat ‘holic.” Happy Christmas, indeed. More Guinness. Lots more Guinness, then off to ground.
Ladbrokes. “Still 7/1 for 3-0?”. The ‘holic pound and a bunch of his mates are invested. Find seat. Forty-four minutes of drudgery follow. We are not very good, and Hull are worse. Hunt is late on Almunia. Bennett lets him off. “Unusual to see that little bastard attempt to maim a ‘keeper” is the best line of a poor half until the Tigers goad us with “You’re rich, and you’re miserable“. Very good.
Hunt involved in handbags on the stroke of half-time wakes the miserable ones. Denilson floats it beautifully into the corner. “One nil to the Arsenal“. I’ve seen empty seats behind the visitors bench. I’m going that way at half time, swigging from a flask of Grouse as I go.
Perfect, I’m a few yards from the son of Allardyce. Strangely though the crowd are letting him have a quiet time. Then a passing breeze catches some twat in a yellow shirt and he stumbles. What? Penalty? You’re having a giraffe. The orange one cavorts in front of us, punching the air and laughing. He runs toward us, gloating.
Manuel saves. He is back to his best today. Time for retribution. Thousands of voices fill the bitterly cold night air. “Stand up, if you hate Phil Brown“. More whisky.
We’ve been longing for an Eduardo goal. Diaby and Song set him up. 2-0. “Sacked in the morning, you’re getting sacked in the morning.” Brownie’s ears are warming up, despite the falling temperature. More whisky.
“Liar, liar what’s the score, liar, what’s the score?“. It’s relentless now, and massive fun. Phil Dowd and the television people are even chuckling. Diaby fires in a cracker. That’s the bet secure if the silly buggers don’t score again. “Tango, Tango, what’s the score, Tango, what’s the score?”
There’s a real danger we could add to three. Theo and Aaron go very close. I don’t care about the money. The crack is now fantastic. “You’re not very brown, you’re not very brown, you’re not very, you’re not very, you’re not very brown!“. The neutrals next to the Hull bench are in tears of laughter.
Then the evil henchman finally makes an appearance. It’s Alan Davies and his mates who spot him first. “Brian, wave to us Brian.” Horton stares ahead, embarrassed. “Come on Brian, how about a duet with that orange twat? I wanna go ho-o-ome, this is the best trip, I’ve ever been on!” The game is forgotten.
With one eye on the clock, the best song of all. “Cesc in a minute, you’re seeing Cesc in a minute.” Even the Hull bench turn round and giggle at that one. The final whistle blows, Arsene races over to shake the hand of the vanquished. That’s another lie put to bed.
Join the queue at Ladbrokes. Someone in front of me says we must all have read Goonerholic this morning. I smile, but don’t own up. A fistful of dollars accompanies me back to the pub where several more Guinni hit the spot, and some fabulous people provide engaging company.
Back to the train. More whisky. Taxi. Stumble through the door.
“Good day, love?’
“Magical, sweetheart, magical.”
It’s not been such a great day for everyone. Text arrives from Eurostar mate. ‘Just got to Ebbsfleet’. Poor sod. I’ll keep the gloves until the United game!
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