Who the flipping heck’s Leeds?

It was at Leeds where my wife-to-be, at her second, and last, away game, asked why we were kept back so long after the final whistle. When the car-park began to rain down on us in brick-sized pieces, she said “Oh, I understand now”, and that just about sums up what a visit to Elland Road usually entailed. Since that early 80’s game, I’ve only paid to get in there once, into the so-called family section. This contained three Sunderland families, and was right next to the nutters who normally occupy the seats nearest the away fans, and were in a bad mood because the size of our support meant that they had to be shifted. “Security” (bouncers, as opposed to match day stewards) told us in no uncertain terms that they wouldn’t get involved if we got jumped, so we’d better shut up and hide our colours. Me and Nige complied, but my two kids wouldn’t, causing me 90 minutes of twitchy bottom. All of my other visits since then have been courtesy of corporate hospitality. OK, so it means wearing a suit and tie over the red and white shirt, but you get free drinks and sometimes meet the players.

My first such visit blew my theory that people in the posh seats would be polite. There we were, in best seats in the house, just behind locals who threatened violence on fellow supporters who refused to call their own coloured players “black bastards”. I’ve been around football a long time, but that one did surprise me.

Anyway, back to one of the few bright spots to illuminate the lunatic reign of Mr Butcher, as the Lads took a 2-1 first leg lead to Yorkshire in the “anybody, please sponsor me-Cup” in ’93. We arrived in plenty of time, a very smart car-load of three Mackems and two Leeds (well, that’s where the tickets came from). We signed into the Captains Bar, where we mixed with the local business community over a couple of Tetley’s, then Pos pointed out the odds offered against Big Bad Don getting the first goal. “6-1. I’ll have a piece of that”. Using my now legendary powers of persuasion (reference the same odds against Johhny Byrne at Oxford in the ’92 FA cup tie), I coaxed the cash back into his wallet. Financially reassured, he led the way to our seats, above the corner flag in the end opposite the rest of our fans.

Once seated, Pos swore solemnly that he would remain calm, quiet, and still in the event of a Sunderland goal. Right on cue, Owers knocked in a free kick from directly below us, and the Don powered in a near-post header. I immediately turned to give Pos a manly, but restrained, hug, just in time to see his feet fly up through my outstretched arms, and have my ears assaulted by a one-man Roker Roar. On landing, he straightened his tie, and, as he turned to offer his thoughts on my skills as a tipster, we became of a phenomenon known as “Mackems in suits”. About two-thirds of our section of the ground were punching the air, hugging each other, and generally going ballistic - in a refined, business-man like way. You can see this at virtually every away game – just look in the boxes and posh seats when we score.

Now that we had established the loyalties of most of our neighbours, and that we were safely separated from the rest of the ground, we could happily repeat the celebrations when Phil Gray charged down a clearance for 2-0. The Captains Bar at half time was a sea of grinning faces, trying their best to remain calm amongst their more seriousYorkshire colleagues.

Leeds pulled one back, but we held on for a famous win despite Gary Bennett leaving the field on a stretcher. We decided on a couple of celebratory pints before leaving the ground, as this would give the traffic time to disperse, and us time to mock the Leeds fans in our party. As we eventually left the ground, the players were also on their way out, so we joined the throngs asking for autographs. As I was chatting to Benno, a bloke in a Leeds shirt leant towards him and asked, in deadly seriousness, “What happened to the black lad who got carried off?”.
“Oh, I think he’s OK” replied Benno, with a smile.

One of our Leeds pals was getting panic attacks, as he’d never seen real footballers up close before, and like any 35 year-old, was going for as many autographs as possible, so he asked me to help him out. Always one to help out a true fan, I leaned through the crowd around David O’Leary, and eventually caught his eye. As I handed over the programme and pen, I said “ Thanks David – can you nip over and get Gary Bennett’s autograph, please?” He didn’t reply, but if ever a look said “pogue mahone”, that one did.

A couple more pints on the Wellington with the Red and White army, who wolf-whistled our suits, was a perfect ending to a perfect evening, and left only one question to answer – why did Terry Butcher travel back in shorts? Suggested answer – he was barking mad, but you already knew that.

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