The Travelling Hordes

Bryn Jones is a Racecourse steward. He's based in and around the Eric Roberts Builders Stand, so he gets a fantastic insight into the psyche of visiting fans...

No.25 EVERTON

Well, that was a very friendly Friendly. At least in our stand. Outside, it all got a bit hairy with hordes of Scousers doing their bit for City of Culture status by beating up sundry passers-by, including a ten-year-old kid. I suppose that if your team regularly under-performs then your social skills must go the same way.

There were no visible Wrexham fans in our stand, but there were a few invisible ones who passed the odd comment on the way out. Despite what happened outside, the bunch in the Marston's, nearly two thousand of them, enjoyed themselves and behaved impeccably. 

Mostly, they remained silent. After all, their team won and there was nothing to play for anyway. The 'sheep' chants got one brief airing in response to the Kop's rendition of 'You'll Never Walk Alone'. Over in the PG there seemed to be a majority of Blues, so the mixing policy sort of worked inside the ground, at least. For league matches, there is little chance of it working. Football fans are more territorial than the average wolf pack. I knew a Chester fan in Leeswood who refused to come to Wrexham, even for an operation. I'll send him a card when he celebrates his Growing Up Day.

One of the Everton fans claimed to have played in the same team as Karl Connolly. He reckoned him a 'great guy'. No dispute there. He then got chatting about other players with Wrexham connections. Barry Horne got the thumbs up as a limited but committed player. 'Hard' has great currency among all travellin' fans. Mickey got the thumbs up - and the usual laughter. It was nice to hear them comment favourably on Joey. They know he is a local hero and, despite his Big Mistake (playing for You Know Who), they appreciate his status here. As for the current players, they liked Trundle - 'good for this level' - but did not spot anybody else. Except, of course, for Big Dennis. He entered to comments like, 'What the **** is that?' However, his ability to tackle players on the wing while still leaning on the goalpost soon got noticed.

I can't make my mind up. Originally, I thought he should change jobs straight away - by becoming an Airport Beacon, maybe, or a Ladder-Free Window Cleaning Service. However, Denis (Smith) has worked some kind of magic on him and he looks great now. And yet, something still niggles me. I know footballers vary in shape and size more than most other sportsfolk. But Dennis and Hector, say, don't even look like they belong to the same species, rather like a deerhound and a small spaniel. Flynnie was often criticised for having too many small players in his team. However, by bringing in Dennis he must have taken the average height of our squad to something like normal with a single move. Still, as my dad says, 'Beauty is as Beauty does', whatever the Hell that means.

Our new ground maintenance regime has finally solved - almost - the pigeon shit problem. Well, even the lowliest travellin' fan deserves a seat free of the stuff, at least. Mind you, The Big Softies left one mummy pigeon who was sitting on her little baby pigeons. AAAAAh. They killed 15 others, though. The b*******!

Our ten per cent pay increase (all one pound of it!) brought everybody back in good cheer, from 'Chin 'em' Paula to Tony 'Big Fish' Bradley (it's amazing what you can do with Tesco's fish counter and a dishonest photographer!). With a nice, sunny day and Premiership opposition, it was great preparation for the rest of the season, which will consist mostly of Scunthorpe and sleet.

PS. The Totty Count was higher than usual, thanks to the weather. One not so bright young thing came in shorts so small they'd have made Barbie's eyes water. One day, I'll stop noticing such things. You can bury me on that day.

No.26 - OXFORD

I have just wiped Swindon off the title line and substituted Oxford. A little irony that an Oxford fan would appreciate there, I think. However, there wasn't much more for them to appreciate about the match. They started having a go at their own lot by the end of the afternoon - a sure sign that they know they were well beaten. Usually, it would be the ref, Lady Luck or maybe History that would get the blame. One interesting variation in the Blame Game came when they spotted Our Denis jumping up and down on the touchline and quickly fired off a chant of: 'Smith out, Smith out!' Why not try harder, lads, and vote for the Whigs at the next election. Maybe, we should blame Maggie Thatcher for our current problems. (Hang on, I think I've allowed reality to enter here). 

In fact, their overall view of Denis was mixed, to say the least. They seemed to forget their promotion season under his wing and concentrated on what seems like an unsatisfactory farewell. Don't know. Don't care. It's their problem. Like all football fans, I suppose I view events through a big telescope. To them, Waynne's appalling luck, Trundle's skills and the vast improvement in players like Rogers and Lawrence are viewed through the little end of the telescope. For me, however, they are seen the proper way round, through the Big End. Otherwise, why bother buying the Leader? Being at the Away End I have to listen to guys like the old one on Saturday who drone on and on about players I neither know nor care about, while desperately waiting my turn to drone on and on about players they neither know nor care about. Very selfishly I start thinking about where the Big End of the telescope could be shoved. He, of course, is thinking exactly the same when I start talking. Ain't life symmetrical? Except in the Wrexham midfield, perhaps.

Basically, it's a nature thing. Nature, or God or, probably, my dad, only gave me a brain big enough to process relevant information. To process everything I hear on Saturdays, I would need a brain as big as a NASA satellite. However, it is the regulation big-bath sponge size.

Bryan's missus: Small bath sponge size…

Bryan: Stop looking over my shoulder, woman, and get on with your hoovering! Damn, now look what's happened. You're not looking and one of your thongs has gone straight up the bloody Dyson again…! 

Phew, cold water, please.

Right, let's get back to Oxford. A sure way to settle the hormones down, methinks. Oxford, I noticed, are one of those clubs whose fans spread out at the away end, leaving them with two or three competing singing groups. At one point, the main bunch, consisting of a dozen or so young lads at the back, started chanting. 'Right side, right side give us a song!' There was only one guy over on their right side and, to his credit, he gave it a bloody good go. I can't remember much else about their chants, apart from the fact they all seemed to juxtapose the words 'Swindon' and 'S***' quite frequently. A little giggle arose at the announcement of floodlight failure at Wycombe, still regarded as juveniles in Oxford's football world.
Going back to having to listen to stories about players in whom I have no interest, another problem is beginning to develop. Age is affecting my hearing now. The nearest monologuer was a bit on the quiet side and I was probably nodding and laughing in all the wrong places. He did not notice (being at the other end of the telescope). But, I wondered, what if he had not been droning on about their goalie's great game at Swindon in 1956 and had actually been saying something like…

Urrgh, my chest. Aaarrrgh, can't breathe. Oh my God, the pain. Help me, please. Call an ambula…

Me: Yeah, you're right, mate. Actually, I remember Brian Lloyd in goal at Chester in 1972…

Oh dear. I wonder if I'm getting too old for this game.