..I was very lucky indeed to be bought a ticket by the venerable Jack AKA Scorpion in the heart of the home support in R Block, we are the R block, we are the R block Shepherds Bush!
The atmosphere felt almost over-cooked and the game itself was more like a pantomime than a football match, with the football taking second place to the pantomime; John Terry cast as the villain and Anton Ferdinand as a surprisingly capable hero. But there was no summary justice for Terry's wrong-doing, so in a sense the whole thing felt futile - we were indeed merely spectators in a drama over which we had no influence. Baiting Terry certainly gave me little pleasure, and although I find the man extremely distasteful, I could not join in 'your family's scum' chants. For me, this was just too much; I felt it reflected badly on us as supporters. I wished we had had some recourse to humourous and witty put-downs, instead of blanket lowest common denominator loathing.
I could not get really excited about the game in the same way as I did watching us beat Wigan in the league the week before, because for some reason it felt meaningless; maybe it was because the idea of survival in the league seemed suddenly way more important than progress in the FA Cup, an attitude that was underlined by Hughes - his action in replacing Helguson at the start of the second half, taking away our most potent threat, was transparent, replaced by the hapless Macheda, and then, to ironic cheers, the actually less ineffective Hulse replaced Buzsaky. But nevertheless I shouted myself hoarse urging our players on in pursuit of something that just seemed inevitably out of our reach in this game, and even, ironically, perhaps best avoided: a win. At this point, Terry had the last laugh. Of course, Wednesday's court case may well have a different outcome for the Chel*** captain.
What I did enjoy, as I always do when in R block territory, despite the palpable (and understandable to a reasonable extent) loathing and vitriol on display, was the camerarderie and the chants that weren't just pure spite, the occasional witticism, the various and constant commentaries among the fans, the strange sense that this bunch of mostly strangers formed a tribe of which I was a part. Yes, I know this is all standard football experience, but it was somehow put into surreally stark relief by the context of the off-field and on-field dramas.
..for the Ellerslie bogs - which involves taking the outside edge of the queue then squeezing through once inside around to the back where the people queuing for the crappers always leave an unattended space in the far urinal. Total queue/piss/out time 3 mins.. possibly an Ellerslie half-time record seeing as I didn't join the queue until approx 5 minutes after half-time whistle.
But yes, let's be serious for a moment - while the fat cats and the better-offs enjoy Cipriani's or the Platinum bar on the other side of the ground, the lumpen proletariat must endure gross conditions and ludicrously antiquated and poor facilities. 'Fernandes, take note' I should tweet, if I was a twitterati.
..I was very lucky indeed to be bought a ticket by the venerable Jack AKA Scorpion in the heart of the home support in R Block, we are the R block, we are the R block Shepherds Bush!
The atmosphere felt almost over-cooked and the game itself was more like a pantomime than a football match, with the football taking second place to the pantomime; John Terry cast as the villain and Anton Ferdinand as a surprisingly capable hero. But there was no summary justice for Terry's wrong-doing, so in a sense the whole thing felt futile - we were indeed merely spectators in a drama over which we had no influence. Baiting Terry certainly gave me little pleasure, and although I find the man extremely distasteful, I could not join in 'your family's scum' chants. For me, this was just too much; I felt it reflected badly on us as supporters. I wished we had had some recourse to humourous and witty put-downs, instead of blanket lowest common denominator loathing.
I could not get really excited about the game in the same way as I did watching us beat Wigan in the league the week before, because for some reason it felt meaningless; maybe it was because the idea of survival in the league seemed suddenly way more important than progress in the FA Cup, an attitude that was underlined by Hughes - his action in replacing Helguson at the start of the second half, taking away our most potent threat, was transparent, replaced by the hapless Macheda, and then, to ironic cheers, the actually less ineffective Hulse replaced Buzsaky. But nevertheless I shouted myself hoarse urging our players on in pursuit of something that just seemed inevitably out of our reach in this game, and even, ironically, perhaps best avoided: a win. At this point, Terry had the last laugh. Of course, Wednesday's court case may well have a different outcome for the Chel*** captain.
What I did enjoy, as I always do when in R block territory, despite the palpable (and understandable to a reasonable extent) loathing and vitriol on display, was the camerarderie and the chants that weren't just pure spite, the occasional witticism, the various and constant commentaries among the fans, the strange sense that this bunch of mostly strangers formed a tribe of which I was a part. Yes, I know this is all standard football experience, but it was somehow put into surreally stark relief by the context of the off-field and on-field dramas.