Girl Writes About Football And Stuff

I'd love to be able to write something witty and incisive about Bradford City. There's a great drama somewhere here, a bit like those films that were so popular in the 90s: windswept fans sporting retro shirts immortalising the glory days of 100 years ago, huddled together on makeshift terraces suffering bitter disappointment week after week, coach journey after coach journey endured in disillusioned resignation to the almost inevitable drop out of the football league. The lead character: my dad, 70 that day, ever the optimist in a world of shattered dreams set against a background of eternal Northern drizzle and branches of Gregg's. And then suddenly, a mere week after an almost unbearable defeat at home at the hands of those football giants that are Morecambe, comes this: a win. And not just a win. Not a last-minute, skin-of-our-teeth, one-lucky-goal-in-extra-time win. Not this time. This was a proper win, a two-goal win. And we even scored them both ourselves. Strangers embraced strangers, united in claret and amber, relief and elation. Tom Adeyemi legged it up the slope to the away stand and gave his mum a hug. Somewhere on the other side of the pitch, Peter Taylor drew a sigh of relief and lived to fight another battle (against Cheltenham, as it turns out. Big-time stuff, this.)

I'd love to give you a blow-by-blow account of every nail-biting minute, the three yellow cards that seemed a little over-zealous in what had the generally friendly air of an after-school kickabout; Zesh Rehman and Luke O'Brien, inexplicably on the bench a week ago, darting around the pitch with flashes of nifty footwork, like Darcy Bussell on speed; the fleeting but promising return of the lovely James "He Used To Work At The Co-Op" Hanson showing us what we've been missing and reminding me why I secretly wish he was my kid brother; Luke Oliver being something other than shit; two fabulous goals, the first one seemingly coming from nowhere, the second from a bloke who if I'm honest I'd pretty much forgotten played for us; a few heart-stopping saves (and one very nearly Rob Green moment) from Jon McLaughlin; their fruitless but valiant attempts to at the very least equalize, which would have given us one point and kept us where we were, at the arse-end of the table, which made for a breath-holding last 20 minutes; the coveted three points and the queues in the pub afterwards.

I'd love to tell you all that, but, well, for some reason I have a feeling you're not really that interested, and anyway, Jason Mckeown does it better. In context, this wasn't quite the David vs Goliath battle I'm making it out to be. This isn't Weatherall-Scores-Against-Liverpool-And-Secures-Premiership-Glory all over again. This is City clawing its way to two places above relegation by beating the titans that are Barnet, a club that almost dropped out of the league last season and which has been immortalised on this blog more than once for playing on a slope and having a giant bee for a mascot at which we ritually hurl abuse every year before losing 2-1 despite scoring two of the goals. In fact on Saturday the most exciting moment for many of the Barnet fans present was when Mr Bumble did a lap of honour to show off the cup he'd won against such strong contenders as Leo the Lion, Spork the Tiger,the Scunny Bunny and Sammy the Shrimp in a football mascots charity race that week. He signed quite a few autographs on the way round. (As an aside, why is Crystal Palace's mascot called Pete the Eagle? Pete? Why the lack of alliteration? Why Pete?)

I'd love to tell you all that. But then I saw this in the match programme, and frankly, nothing I could write could compete. I've independently verified that it's not a spoof, so if you're interested you should get yourself a season-tickets so you can secure yourself that valuable discount:


"Oi Churchill! Can you arrange the scattering of my ashes at Underhill? Can you get me a hearse with amber and black plumes?"

"Ohhhhh YES!"

Have a good week :-)