On our ‘95-96 train journey
down to the smoke, we sat near a group of very smart
looking ladies who were on shopping expedition. They
were dressed up to the nines, reading “Bella” and
eating Marks & Sparks salads. Our gentlemanly
questioning revealed that they were on a regular
excursion to London from Tyneside to do a bit of “upmarket” shopping.
They wished us good luck for the match, we wished
them happy shopping, and, at King’s Cross,
we went our separate ways, expressing sincere hope
that we would met up on the homeward journey.
We met up with Reg, now based in Ross
on Wye, who had travelled with the his usual pessimistic
outlook – every time he and his brother John, now based
in Cheshire, succumbed to our gentle persuasion and went to an away game, Sunderland
lost. The usual few beers in the Lamb were followed by a last-possible- minute
train journey out to the capital’s southern suburbs. Our reluctance to
leave the Lamb resulted in a sprint to Selhurst and no time for further refreshment
before the match.
We went to the window assigned
to selling tickets to away fans, where no amount
of persuasion could convince the youth behind the
glass that three £14
tickets did NOT cost £38. No wonder they’re
going bust! Eventually, we stumped up the £38
he wanted, and then had great problems trying to
get together £12.6666666 each to cover the
cost! We got through the turnstiles, spent the money
we had saved on ticket on three of football’s
better burgers, and raced up the steps towards the
seats. The second the field came into view, Nigel
Martyn let the ball bounce off his chest for the
first of many times that afternoon (he must have
been wearing a bullet–proof vest), and the
eventual outcome was a penalty.
 Not even in our seats,
and the chance to go one up at the home of one of
the better teams in the division! Magic! Unfortunately,
Scotty’s spot-kick hit the foot of the
post and flew along the line to safety. We generally
outplayed Palace without creating too much in front
of goal until the second half, when we were awarded
another penalty. This time, Le Brace took responsibility,
and proceeded to serve up one of the worst penalties
of all time. Take heart, Mickey Gray! The thud of
the ball into the advertising hoardings lives with
me still. Eventually, Martyn let another shot bounce
off him, Bally whacked it back into the middle, and
Mr Kelly scuffed the ball just inside the post for
one of his all-too-rare goals for us. Celebrations
of the enormous variety were enjoyed with Sunderland-supporting
ex-mag KevinScott who we had spotted close by.
One nil at Palace – not bad at all. We headed
back to Victoria, where we went to the nearest pub
for a celebratory pint or three. I forget the name
of the pub, but it had a big notice stating that
no football supporters were allowed in. We duly buttoned
our coats up to the top, and entered. It was half
full of lads wearing huge, smug, grins, and coats
buttoned up to the top. These were the followers
of the days successful teams. The other half of the
clientele were lads dressed identically, but with
glum expressions, and were so obviously the followers
of the day’s unsuccessful teams. Reg was especially
pleased, as his journey across the country had, for
once, been rewarded, if not with a brilliant performance,
then with three good points. We endured the stickiest
pub carpet in the country – a heady combination
of beer, powdered glass, unspecified vegetable matter,
and straightforward glue (dripped from the noses
of the locals, no doubt!)- and some of the scariest
toilets in the capital, for an hour or so. We phoned
everyone who had turned down our invitation to join
us and had a quick gloat, until Reg headed for the
west, and we headed for King’s Cross.
Now, we were happy and suitably “warm” (Bishop
dialect for a having a gallon on board) for the journey
home, but our female travelling companions really
put us to shame. These elegant lady shoppers of this
morning had been transformed, in a matter of six
or seven hours, into the harridans from Hell. Mascara
down the cheeks, smudged lipstick, hair adrift, holes
in the stockings, and heels off heir shoes. Blouses
with the buttons done up out of sequence, tabs all
round, and raucous, cackling laughter. Copies of “Playgirl” and
ready-mixed Gin and Tonics had replaced the copies
of “Bella” and the Marksies salads. Harrods
carrier bags littered the aisleway and balanced precariously
on the luggage racks. Our beers lasted until Doncaster,
but their G&Ts ran out before Peterborough, so
it was off to the buffet car for the girls, lurching
down the carriage to the amusement of all aboard.
They joined in our now-customary cacophony of “hits
of the 70s”, and generally made us look like
model citizens for the duration of the journey, despite
our vain efforts to drink draughtflow beer straight
from the can (try it, you’ll see what I mean).
If ever you have train tickets booked
to London, and the match in question is called off,
I would recommend a shopping trip instead. It looks
to me like it would be good fun!
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