The confession box

Okay, I admit it.  I want Australia to win this test. 

It might be sleep deprivation or the first sign of lunacy following two days of waiting for my sodding ISDN to work.  Maybe it’s because this English team is just a little too methodical to get that excited about or that the Aussies are made up of guys I kind of feel sorry for.  Hell it might just be the fact I can’t be bothered to sit here for three days watching a bore draw. 

Whatever the reason it’s not something that sits right.  My teenage self would be horrified to hear this.  I can imagine him now, smoking a Silk Cut, listening to The Orb & shaking his head in disappointment.  “Don’t judge me!”  I feel like telling him.  That and that maybe he should consider washing his clothes a bit more regularly.

I blame my job.  Working in sport warps you in much the same way betting on it does.  I remember one Fulham game in the season we were coasting our way to the Championship title & a bloke on the Hammersmith End had wagered money Fulham would win 3-0.  At half time we were 3-0 up meaning for the rest of the match he didn’t want Fulham to score.  It was at this moment I stopped betting on my team.

It doesn’t need money to change perception.  For years my mates would spend a good hour at the pub every Saturday dissecting fantasy football teams before then spending the next hour talking about real football teams.    It became such an important part of our lives that I still know exactly how many mini-league victories I have even though I stopped doing it years ago:  Three, one Premier League, one World Cup and Euro 2004.

Our group’s obsession with fantasy football got so ridiculous that I would be celebrating a Fulham goal only to turn to my mate who (sporting a stupid grin) would be shouting ‘Dream Team!’ signalling he had the player in his side.  I remember being disappointed Clint Dempsey had scored because my mate was going to get seven points for the goal.  It really doesn’t take much for lifelong loyalties to be forgotten. 

Eventually I realised it was time to give fantasy football a rest when I went an entire season hoping Chelsea wouldn’t concede a goal because I had John Terry & Ricardo Calvalho in my team.  That really is wrong & so is supporting Australia in an Ashes test.

With three days to go Australia have scored 527 and have set themselves the target of bowling out England twice.  England, big outsiders for anything other than a battling draw are under way and currently without loss.  Moments ago the captain Cook edged behind and the ball just dropped short of his opposite number Michael Clark and part of me wanted him to be out.  A long period of soul searching awaits.

Or does it?  For while the fan in me who trudged around Australia watching England lose 5-0 would disagree it makes sense to want an Aussie win as it keeps this series alive.  With two tests remaining in Durham and London it would be a struggle to keep momentum going over ten days with the outcome decided.  The only outstanding question whether England could complete the same whitewash.  Even that isn’t looking likely now.

A defeat for England would also inject something that has been noticeably lacking in this test. Tension.  This is the first Ashes test match I can ever remember watching lacking fear factor.  Fear of defeat, fear we won’t win, that we can’t save the match, that the other team will, that the rain will come, that it won’t arrive, that my favourite player won’t score any runs, that Ponting/Hayden/Waugh will. 

At 2-0 up against the worst Australian side in living memory & nearly a decade of home Ashes series wins in the memory bank it’s almost become a formality.  And there’s nothing worse than watching a formality especially when spread out over two or three days or one or two tests.  This must be what it was like to be an Aussie cricket fan for so long.  In the end fans got so tired watching them churn out victories they realised the only way their own team could be beaten was to turn against them.

So, yes teenage self, I do want Australia to win this test so that this series can come alive once more.  So I can travel to Durham fearful that these words will come back to haunt me.   So that I can get a bit of this back in my system, and that so when England win I can celebrate & marvel at the magic.  So that we can give the Aussies a sniff of hope and then just when they think they’re within touching distance of the greatest come from behind series win in history England hit straight back and DESTROY THEM AGAIN MAKING PHIL HUGHES AND STEVEN SMITH CRY AND MICHAEL CLARKE RETIRE AND SHANE WATSON BECOME A MONK AND AUSTRALIA SINKS INTO THE SEA IN SHAME.

And then Joe Root got out and I felt a bit guilty writing this article.  I like Joe Root.

Ying versus yang

For the first time in my life Fulham are still in a cup at the same time the cricket season has got underway. It's a situation I doubt I'll ever have reason to get used to. And while thoughts of tonight's Europa semi final are almost all encompassing I recently took advantage of my Surrey membership, ECB pass and an irregular working week to take in a couple of days of county cricket.

Nearly as typical as an early Fulham cup exit is the media's annual treatment of the start of a new county season. If they can be bothered to cover it at all it will usually feature a photo of an elderly gent, possibly asleep, sitting alone in the expanse of an otherwise empty cricket stand. Just to keep the subeditors interested the scene will be mixed up a bit year on year. One season the old man will be holding an umbrella, the next he'll have a dog by his side, sometime he won't even be watching the cricket, choosing instead to complete a crossword.

Sadly as with most things in life the media may exaggerate somewhat but the truth is in their somewhere. And parallels between my experiences in the Ashes summer of 2009 with the opening salvos of the county season 2010 are difficult to conjure. But although my recent visits to Lord’s and The Oval where I last saw England set up, and then thrillingly finish off the Aussies, lacked the same exhilaration they did afford more than enough to keep my attention away from the Guardian crossword.

Taking my seat in the Upper Edrich stand at Lord’s to watch Middlesex play a side other than Surrey for the first time felt did make me feel slightly treacherous. But with the not so mighty Brown Caps resting and a whole afternoon free I was keen to check out Iain O’Brien, a Kiwi bowler who recently retired from international cricket. While his record at the highest level was modest the excellent blog he wrote while playing for New Zealand gave a unique insight into cricket life at the top. It also attracted a legion of fans he’d never have attracted otherwise. Myself included.

Iain was bowling as I got to the ground at just after lunch with Gloucestershire comfortably placed at 141 for 2. Several parts of the stadium were out of bounds as I peered out from under the Mound Stand as he raced in for my first ball of the day. It went for four. The second was a wicket as his fellow countryman Hamish Marshall mistimed a pull to long off. Who needs the IPL with action like this?

Taking my seat in the John Edrich Upper alongside roughly one hundred spectators I was immediately transported back to the grassy banks of Hamilton, Adelaide and Trinidad as the not altogether unpleasant aroma of suntan lotion floated on the breeze.
While the sight of ageing, sunburnt white men with tops off and pints at the ready added to the feeling that I had been in similar environments many times before.

I soon lapsed into a contended haze of cricket watching, sun bathing and eavesdropping the local cricket tragics. “They don’t listen to us,” remarked one Middlesex fan about the ECB before his group proceeded to disagree about every topic they raised. Shaun Udal’s captaincy, the reason for Middlesex’s poor start to the season, why Tim Murtagh wasn’t taking wickets, T20, Pro40 & 4 day cricket. “Corruption in India? I find that hard to believe,” said another sage about the current crisis affecting the IPL.

Meanwhile O’Brien was claiming wickets at regular intervals and ended the day with his second best first class figures of 7/48. It was a lovely way to spend an afternoon for us both. Affording the kind of relaxation and reflection I can only achieve whilst watching cricket. And totally out of sorts with the kind of experience I’m expecting tonight at the Cottage. Fulham versus Hamburg with a place at a European Cup final awaiting the winner is as nerve wracking as it gets.

In some ways the last week has helped me solve a conundrum I’ve never been able to answer. Which sport do I like the most, cricket or football? Up to now I’ve not been able to split or even compare them. They are at opposite ends of the spectrum in terms of playing or watching. The only similarity is the pain and joy they both bring. And while one could exist without the other it isn't a case of which one I love the most. For if cricket is my ying then football is most certainly my yang.

Common people

Counting crying children isn’t most people’s idea of a fun way to spend a day off, but you shouldn’t knock it until you try it. Actually I will go further and suggest any of you whose interest has been piqued by one of Britain’s fastest growing spectator sports try it sooner rather than later. Because if you don’t take advantage prior to becoming a parent then you run the risk of joining the “you wouldn’t say that if you had kids” brigade (YWSTIYHKB for short) and this guilty pleasure will be taken away forever.

With the sun making a surprising, early and welcome return to our shores, I’ve found myself spending much of my free time on Clapham Common. I spent much of my teenage and twenty-something years playing football and getting drunk in Clapham. So it came as something of a surprise to find hidden away from the Windmill pub and plots perfect for footy a spacious cafeteria and bandstand area.

Ideal for those without a ball or a wish to spend their time sozzled during the daytime it’s a haven for Clapham’s well off mothers, dog walkers and fitness freaks. Admittedly throughout the night it’s used for far less salubrious reasons but in short when homosexual men aren’t cottaging in nearby shrubbery it’s a great place to spend an hour or two.

With a raised bank up one side of the bandstand (perfect for high speed skating), a concrete pathway (perfect for working up some speed on the scooter) all surrounded by gravel (perfect for high speed bicycle skids) it’s dreamtime for the scores of youngsters let off the leash while their parents do coffee and check their blackberries. And it wasn’t long until I started noticing, then counting the number of kid’s afternoons which featured a mandatory five-minute crying break.

On one afternoon in March I counted twenty crying children. At the start of April I managed thirteen, although on that occasion I wasn’t around for so long. Last Sunday I was joined by Sinan & Richard and although it took them a while to get comfortable with my idea of fun it wasn’t long before we were making scarily accurate guesses about which of the children would be in tears next.

It soon became apparent that the faster the child was careering around on their bike the greater the chance they would soon be lying prostrate on the gravel staring at their grazed hands in horror. That the small kids who spent half their time desperately trying to keep up with their older siblings would spend the other half wrapped round their parents in floods of tears in frustration at failing. And woe betide the foolish child who attempts to eat an ice cream and manoeuvre their scooter at the same time.

I’d like to say it’s the strangest sporting activity I’ve ever undertaken on Clapham Common. But memories of taking a dip in the duck pond with Nicky B are still as fresh in the mind. And I have yet to write about the joys & all round weirdness that I’m currently experiencing as part of my new BMF regime. But for those of you who like to keep a record of such thing, in the end we broke the record by three children. But the summer is still young.

Back in the day

In the four months since last my last post events have conspired to force me to live my life rather than write about it. So much has happened it’s difficult to know where to begin. Although on the rare chance that Fe actually bothers to read my blog I suppose it would be wise of me to start off with the news of my engagement.

Almost as heart warming and nearly as surprising is the news that Fulham are still in Europe. I’ve only just got back from a 3-day trip to Wolfsburg to watch us make it through to the quarterfinals. Living the bloody dream. And it was whilst in Germany that I decided it was long overdue to bring my blog back up to date.

The only attention I’ve given it of late was after it got infected by a virus that re-directed users to a strange Turkish porn site. No wonder my hit count had gone up so much.

The other unusual thing is that I appear to have attracted a small following in China. I’m not sure what the comments they are making mean - but welcome aboard, my friends!

It is scandalous I haven’t updated more often especially when you consider how much has happened since me and my bro travelled to Rome to get robbed by a referee. It reminds me when I kept a secret diary and the only time I ever used to write anything was when something bad had happened.

It shouldn’t come as a surprise that I once kept a diary. It’s logical that the type of person who keeps a blog that nobody reads should also be the type of person who would scribble away in a diary that nobody should have read. For many a candle lit evening was spent in my room, door locked, grunge crackling away on my dusty record player, pen in hand and life’s woes being brought to bear. It’s a tight call on what I’ve spent more time on. Trying to stop people reading my diary or trying to get them to read my blog. In neither have I been particularly successful.

From the ages of 13 to 30 I kept irregular updates on life and if they were to be delved into now not only would it be cringe worthy it would appear I had lived a pretty depressing life. For when the good times were occurring I was out and about enjoying them to the maximum. However when things were going against me I’d be back behind the locked door, putting the world to rights in old faithful.

For apart from being useful when compiling a hit list or trying to work out the top ten hottest girls in my class, keeping a diary, and a blog, has always been a therapeutic exercise. Getting problems down on a page has always made them seem more manageable. Sometimes making promises to myself on paper was the first step towards achieving them in real life.

No doubt the recurring promises throughout my diary writing years would become repetitive and involve similar aspects of life. Giving up cigarettes, cutting down on the drink, reducing my overdraft, getting a nice girlfriend and in general sorting my life out exclamation mark, exclamation mark.

And it would be a bit weird if I now used my blog in the same way. Though thankfully there’s no need, as finally I seem to have managed to give up cigarettes, cut down on my drink, reduce my overdraft, sort my life out and get a nice girlfriend, although Fe would probably disagree on the drinking part.

So my blog serves a different purpose, namely to keep a record of the things that I find and do that are interesting rather than a list of things that I find depressing.

What does link both a blog and a diary together is that neither is properly reflective of the life and times if left to itself. And ahead of what could be the defining twelve months of my life it’s time to bring my blog back up to date.

Sticking two fingers up at my carbon footprint

*****The following took place between 4am on Thursday the 5th and 4am, Friday the 6th November*****

4am - The alarm clock goes off. As I turn my phone to silent and step out of bed I am hit by the familiar pang of dread that accompanies every morning of a day in which I'm required to board a plane.

After a shower and dressing in half darkness I gulp down some tea and leave Fe sleeping. It's cold outside and dark. I contemplate never coming back. The headlines in the newspapers that a plane carrying 300 Fulham fans has crashed. It's pathetic really. I've flown 43 times in the last three years. You'd think it would either get easier or that I would grow some.

5am - I pass two drunken couples on the walk down Lavender Hill to Clapham Junction. After getting my ticket I find myself in familiar territory. i.e. waiting for a train to Gatwick that is showing no signs of arriving. It's delayed and for a few worrying minutes I am transported back to February and my failure to get to Jamaica.

6am - No need for additional stress as the train arrives late but well within time. I meet up with Dave and Fergus (a fellow Fulham fan) by the designated help desk. Me and Dave get our boarding passes and match tickets and the Spanish lady behind the counter calls Fergus, Fergoose. A nickname is born.

With our plane scheduled for a 7.30am take off there's enough time for Dave and Fergoose to grab coffee and breakfast. I opt for a double vodka and lemonade.

7am - The flight is memorable only for the fact that for once I go without valium. I don't want my day to be clouded or my emotions held in check. It's only a 2hour flight after all. Dave tells me I should look out the window when I fly as it provides a constant reminder of the reality of the situation. It's a good point.

8am - Still flying. Still not looking out the window much.

10am (Italian time) - I arrive with a bang. Several of them. I'm starting to suspect that those who fly charter planes aren't quite at the top of the piloting calibre tree. What do they do during the week when they're not flying football fans across Europe? Is there such thing as a part-time pilot? A freelancer?

Does this particular pilot dream of the day he can stop stacking shelves at Tesco? Does he imagine the moment he tells the night shift supervisor where to stick that last packet of Nutty Corn Shreds before storming out to work for a reputable airline with a proper uniform that commands respect and where he doesn't have to foot the dry-cleaning bill.

Judging by the crunching landing and the way the plane bounces to halt our pilot could do with more flying time or a reality check.

Disembarking I survey my 23rd country and immediately experience the crazy Italian driver stereotype. The bus driver taking us to customs seems to be having a running battle with a guy carrying another plane's luggage.

Meanwhile a bloke behind with sunglasses and a cigarette on the go drives his vehicle with both hands off the steering wheel. Somehow he conveys an attitude of nonchalent aggression. He looks like he could be the older brother of Paolo Di Canio.

11am - Armed police in all manner of pretty uniforms are lined up waiting for us. Without moving, speaking or breaking off from looking ever so slightly camp, they direct us to our coaches.

Before the journey I had been warned about two things to keep an eye on. Italian fans and Italian police. The first will stab you in the bottom. The second will hit you over the head with a truncheon.

Safety had been entrusted to the baton wielders. The convoy of five coaches was thus led into the heart of Rome by two cop cars that wouldn't have looked out of place in an Inspector Clouseau movie. If Clouseau had been Italian and not French, of course.



12am - Dropped of in the middle of Villa Borghese gardens. I know this because I just looked it up. The jobsworth on the coach warns me and Dave that if we return any later than half past three the coaches will leave and we will have to brave the journey to the ground without anyone preventing the natives from stabbing us in the bottom.

1pm - With camera in hand and stab-proof pants on, me, Dave and Fergoose walk towards the river Tiber. I also know this because I looked it up. We walk past a Piazza and down a couple of random streets before we find ourselves a 'local' restaurant far from the beaten track. Bottom stabbing aside we are all keen to immerse ourselves inthe local culture for a few short hours.



2pm - Three pizzas and six beers heavier we depart seventy five euros lighter. Stung by the exchange rate and a waiter who sussed us the minute we walked into the joint.

3pm - I get within two streets of the Vatican before the thought of missing the 3.30pm deadline forces us all to beat a hasty retreat back to the coach. En route we stop off to buy pancetta, Italian wine and a couple more beers. I deliver a passionate and rousing five minute account of the journey on talkSPORT.

4pm - I am told by the jobsworth that the reason why the coaches didn't actually depart at 3.30pm is because the police are waiting to undertake body searches on everyone. Although from my vantage point they seem far more interested in smoking cigarettes than they do conducting pat downs.





5pm - Dusk is falling by the time we leave. We are driven through town to the Stadio Olympico. Pleasure is derived from the fact that a) all traffic is halted to allow us uninterrupted passage to the ground b) the Roma fans that we pass swear at us c) we are safe and can laugh at them rather than fearing for our lives and our bottoms.

And before you know it we arrive.





6pm - An hour til kick off. A chance to go through the FFC songbook. Clear the lungs. Test the acoustics. Make our presence known. For once we actually manage to outsing our opponents.



6.10pm - Could really do with a beer now. The football hooligan of the 80's has a lot to answer for. No alcohol allowed on the flight, the coach and now the ground. Even some of the bars in town had shut up shop. Didn't they know Fulham fans are the best behaved in the Premier League?



7pm - The first half passes with Fulham well on top. A goal to the good and looking comfortable. As long as the ludicrous decision to give Haangeland a yellow card is the only decision the referee gets wrong we might even get more than the point we were hoping for.

The only other downside is an altercation with an inbred Fulham fan located right in front of us. After being asked to sit down so as to not block the view he refused

"It's Europe, not Craven Cottage" he blustered. As though being in Europe somehow made him invisible thus allowing those unfortunate enough to have to sit behind his stinking, yellow toothed form clear view of the action. "Everyone's standing up!" He cried. Forcing everyone in the vicinity to slowly look around to try and locate another person standing.

Momentarily unsure of himself he then repeated his "It's Europe!" line of argument as though we hadn't heard him the first time, no doubt hoping that after the fifth or sixth airing my brother would turn to me and remark "Oh, I get it, he's saying that it's Europe, and not Craven Cottage. Therefore we should either all be standing or just put up with him blocking our view. Because that's what happens when you watch football in Europe."

But this didn't happen. Instead Dave just told him off in much the same manner a primary school assistant would admonish a slightly backward child who had just coloured in his own face with crayons.

We moved along one seat for an unobstructed view and the buffoon's 'friends' looked a bit shame faced and gave off a 'here we go again' air of resignation.

8pm - The decision not to allow alcohol pays off and the destruction of the Stadio Olympico is averted following one of the most bent displays of refereeing ever witnessed. The pain of dropping two points at home in the last minute of the game against the same opponents is revisited. Two men sent off, a deflected shot that levelled things up and we are faced with a very long journey home with nothing to show for it.

9pm - But first we have a nice hours wait in the cold to get through. At least the moron in front chose to sit down for that second half. Although at times I could have done with something to hide behind. It's a sad end to a day that hasn't finished yet. Another two hour flight beckons. Oh, lucky me. Time to put a brave face on things.



10pm - The hour drive back to the airport flashes by. The warmth of the coach and the extra layers I've put on leave me feeling drowsy. I sleep most of the way. Upon reaching our destination I realise I will have to leave behind the wine bought earlier in the day. Then as we pass through customs the last of the duty free shops shuts for the night.

11pm - An unexpected delay at the airport. I ask the guy selling drinks for wine. His supervisor tells him not to sell it to me.

12pm - Dave and I drop 5MG of valium. As we slouch on our chairs and Dave eats M&M's (which the supervisor was happy to sell to us) big drops of rain start to splatter against the windows. It's dark, it's wet and outside it's cold. It's time to go home.

1am - Finally take off. An hour later than planned. With lights dimmed and the valium taking hold I let my head rest on Dave's shoulder. Hopeful of sleep. But any chance of this is rudely ended as the plane suddenly drops and lurches to the side. Startled, my eyes immediately flick open and I instinctively reach for my brother. His eyes are now also wide open.

Turbulence strikes. Repeatedly. And not just any old turbulence either - the worst I've ever experienced. The plane shudders and rocks and an audible groan rings out from the passengers after one particularly bad jolt makes the plane shudder and dip alarmingly.

The stewardesses are caught out. Everyone has been. The head steward grabs the intercom will all stewardesses get back to their seats now!!!!! But half way through barking this order the plane is broadsided by another burst. It overbalances him and the surprise in his voice is broadcast to us all 'will all stewardesses get back to their seats noooooooow!!!!!'

Panicking Stewardesses do nothing for my state of mind. With one hand grabbing my brothers knee and the other the seat in front all I could think of was Jesus Christ Fulham , haven't you put us through enough today?!

2am - Thankfully (and by thankfully, I mean, thank you god, I am down on my knees praying to you here) after ten minutes the turbulence subsides. I look back on the moment before my flight when I opted to take valium as one of the greatest decisions I've ever made. The part time pilot speaks to us over the tannoy to apologise for not warning us about the impending storm we were about to fly into. It was down to the delay at the airport. Apparently we missed the worst of it.

2am (UK time) - We fail to miss the worst of him, however. Another bumpy landing followed by a skid or two signals the fact that our plane has landed. For a minute I feared the turbulence had returned. *Note to pilot* If your journey is delayed. Recheck the f*cking weather forecast in the area you are about to fly into. That is all.

3am - Without any baggage in the hold Dave, Fergoose and I waltz through customs and head straight for the carpark. Fergoose kindly drops us both off at our houses.

Despite the hour and the fact I have work in the morning I pour myself a small glass of Angostura 1824, switch on the computer and read The Guardian, The Independent and BBC Sport's
version of events. I've always like the Beeb.

4am - Valium + physical/mental exhaustion + shot of the finest Angostura 1824Rum Trinidadian dollars can buy = deep, sweet sleep.

5.55pm on a Sunday afternoon

It's a time of the week that immediately brings to mind images of Harry Secombe boring half of England senseless on the old ITV show Highway. It was a rival to BBC's Songs of Praise and featured the former Goodie singing Christian songs on hillsides up and down the country.

Every week its signature music would set off an alarm in my adolescent brain that said "homework can not be put off any longer". I would drag myself off to my bedroom to pore over crumpled pieces of Science or English papers that demanded attention. Before then putting my feet up on my desk and reading a comic.

The stresses that the spectre of unwritten essays held over me meant it took years before I learnt how to enjoy my Sundays. The dread of the upcoming schoolweek and the hungover regrets from preceedings nights out made even Formula One an appealing way to take ones mind off things.

But times change when you work six days a week; for now any day off is enjoyed to the maximum. It's no surprise that everyday things like newspapers, TV, lunch or football are elevated to elysian status simply by putting the word Sunday in front of them. However this particularly Sunday may prove a little different as two opposing worlds are destined to collide and the fallout could be quite devastating.

For this Sunday, my mental health and nervous system will be tested to the limit as Fulham play Chelsea at exactly the same time that England attempt to wrestle The Ashes off of the Aussies. And although my body will be at one of the spiritual sporting venues I call home my mind will not be at the other. I will be watching England versus Australia at The Oval but I will not be listening to Fulham versus Chelsea at Craven Cottage. I simply cannot take it.

The chances of Fulham emerging victorious are even greater than England beating Australia. With Fulham 6/1 and England 10/3 the chances of both winning are.......I don't know, I can't work it out. Anyway, it's not going to happen. So I'll try and cut out the events at Craven Cottage by limiting myself to half-time and full-time updates. And I'll direct all my attention to the action on the field in front of me.

I don't know what's going to happen this weekend but I do know this. I've been dreading the cricket ever since Headingley, that Fulham were lucky to score a late equaliser in the corresponding fixture last season, and that it probably won't be a good idea to call me at 5.55pm on Sunday afternoon.

Caught on Kamara

I don’t want to tempt fate but if Fulham do manage to escape relegation this season then this small plot of land in South East England will forever remain in my heart.



Fulham went up to Manchester City five points off safety with three games to go. You don’t need to be Rain Man to work out that things looked bleak. With just one win away from home in eighteen months, and that being the last time we played away, the family Norman had long since resigned themselves to resignation.

I’ve been working almost non-stop since getting back from New Zealand. But I had Saturday off and had agreed to take Fe to Guildford for an audition for a musical theatre course. And I was pleasantly surprised when I got there to find the nice canal above to relax next to.

I was expecting to have to wait around for a couple of hours at least and so armed with a newspaper, a bottle of water and a transistor radio I waited for Fe to finish her audition by sun bathing next to the water.

An hour into my wait and the game and Fulham were relegated. Two-nil down and with other results going against us I spoke to my dad on the phone. ‘Chat later when we’re in the Championship’ I said as I hung up, before turning the radio back on.

Of my family I was the only one listening. My parents were tootling around the house ignoring the updates. My brother was regressing back to his youth by spending a sunny afternoon locked away in a room role-playing with Calum while Lucy was entertaining my cousin.

Which left me, sitting peacefully, listening to talkSPORT’s coverage of the match on my own. All around me families were picnicking, women pushing buggies, dogs swimming in the water and pensioners enjoying the sun. And then with twenty minutes to go Fulham scored.

At that point there was still nothing to suggest the goal was anything but a consolation. Fulham had been on the back foot for much of the game and sure enough Man City had a couple of chances to score before *PENALTY!*

At the time the commentators had crossed to the game at Birmingham where our relegation rivals had previously been 2-0 up against Liverpool. But seconds after hearing news that Liverpool had pulled level it now appeared Fulham had a penalty kick and a chance to do the same thing.

And after having his first kick saved Danny Murphy converted to send those present wild and leading me to jump up off the bench I was sitting on sending my radio flying and crashing onto the ground in the process.

Throughout the game I’d been receiving texts from Tom in Australia who’d got back from a party to watch the match. But I hadn’t heard anything since our first goal and nothing again here. So I called him and woke him from his whiskey induced sleep before tuning back into the commentary.

A draw was still not good enough for Fulham or Man City who needed a win to keep in touch with hopes of a European place. And this led to both teams forsaking defence in favour of wanton attack.

The last five minutes were ridiculous. I was far too tense to remain seated and so found myself pacing up and down by the banks of the canal (again see above). The commentary team were in hysterics as time after time Man City failed to take the chances their forwards and our defenders presented them. It truly was a game for the neutrals I thought as I heard the howls of frustration from the home fans in the background.

Part of me was happy that we’d pulled it back to 2-2 but I knew it wasn’t going to be enough. And I felt like I was going to have a heart attack every time Man City went forward. We hadn’t come back from two goals down away from home in years. It couldn’t happen.

But then it did.



If this is how Paul Merson reacted I would love to know what I looked like. If I could buy the CCTV footage from Guildford Council I would. Because I went absolutely mental. Fists pumping in the air, yelling out, jumping around. I must have looked like one crazy fucker. I could see people looking at me and I didn’t care. ‘Fuham are still alive’ I shouted at one bloke who turned to his wife and said ‘I think something must have happened in the football’. He was right. Oh yeah!!!!!



Several wild and wide-eyed phonecalls to various members of the family ensued. I’ve never sworn more to my mum in my life. She in turn has never sworn so much in her life as she recounted the story to my sister.

I also tried to call Tom back but his phone wasn’t working. I later found out that his screaming had woken up his whole apartment block and he’d managed to smash his phone in the process of celebrating. But he did manage to leave this message on my phone which pretty much sums up all the above in four words. (Press download and turn the volume on your computer UP!)



All of which means Fulham go into our game on Saturday with Birmingham still in with a chance of a ridiculously great escape. A win there and we really could be within touching distance of safety.

So only time will tell whether Guildford will remain close to mine and Fe’s hearts (she’s still waiting to hear whether she got a recall). But I doubt whether those who walked past my one man goal celebration antics will ever forget where they were that day.

Maggie Thatcher

14 = Games since last win
6 = points from safety
0 = pundits tipping us to beat Villa
0 = goals scored in previous three games
1 = talkSPORT colleagues at the game who support Villa ready to give me stick

68 minutes into our must win game against Aston Villa we deservedly score our first of the game. Unfortunately it was in the wrong net. At this point Fulham were getting relegated.

Four minutes later and our very own Margaret Thatcher lookalike set up Simon Davies (he of the personally penned chant 'Simon Davies, Simon Davies, only scores goals in 3-1 defeats) to bring us back from the brink.

And with four minutes remaining, our £6 million man Diomansy Kamara (more useless than 'Useless Bob' aka Steve Marlet) loses control of the ball and somehow draws a foul from England's Curtis Davis. Up steps Jimmy (he's better than Frank Lampard, he's better than Stevie Gerrard, he's Jimmy Bullard) and Craven Cottage detonates.

It's been a while since I've said this but I quite like football.....sometimes.