Date: Oct 1998
From: Sean Hennessey <suggs@TIAC.NET>
Personal "The Trip Diary"
This is rather long, but I wanted to include up to the match at Highbury to have some serious United and list content. It also includes some slightly related annecdotes, so be warned.
I finally wrote something sober, so it should make a little sense, but I mak-a no promises... :)
More to come later, but if the first three days is this long, this could become a novel.
Maybe I should ask Hoddle for some publishing tips? :) :)
tara - Sean
lies the monster ****************
I arrived in London about half 10, Thursday night, after over 12 spent in transit (including the obligatory waits at airports for transfers, etc.), nearly dead to the world. The previous night had been spent packing, drinking in a pub with the flatmate ( his farewell present, why did everyone expect me not to come back? :-) , and ultimately whiling the entire night (and nerves) away playing Fifa '98, watching Super Friends on the Cartoon Network, and drinking copious amounts of Belhaven. Never the most glorious of travellers, the nights awake (and pissed) had the proper affect of making me sleep most of the trip - including before take-off and to the gate from Boston to Newark.
After my usual session at Customs (this time a problem with the various spellings of my surname on my official documents, I blame by great-grandfather who spelled it Henisse to avoid Irish persecution over here - it didn't work, and it made a nightmare fo r me and my dad, who spell it sort of properly, but I digress), I made my way, via a quick and desperate fag break (since when did they ban smoking on international flights?!?), to Victoria Station, where I was met by two of my best friends on the face, Sean 'Humph' Humphreys and fiancé Fiona 'Not that one' Fullerton. Much ABU flew as the West Ham supporting (though she doesn't really care - it's her birthright) Fi locked eyes on my Eric tattoo. The frequent anti-United jokes aside, we had a rather unev entful evening until I was unceremoniously deposited on an air mattress in their sitting room, where I whiled the rest of the night sneaking out onto the landing for ciggies, or being used as a brand new toy by their 3 cats, none named Eric I was upset to discover...
Friday: Looked about my old haunts with Humph, mainly guitar shops on Denmark Street, a few record shops down Berwick St, and to a new used-computer gear shop, where I finally purchased Premiership Manager 98 (I'm crap, Fergie, your job is safe) and Actua -Soccer 2. In between, Humph graciously showed me to a nice footy gear place, where I had a lovely chat with a man who was looking forward to his pay-packet so he could buy his 150th jersey! And I thought I was bad! He explained to me that he'd have to get the Newcastle as he liked the design, but would never buy United because he thinks Umbro's designs are crap... Later that evening Humph and Fi surprised me by bringing me to a photography exhibit opening. Me - a blatant ignorant bastard, wearing my Keano/Guiness shirt, covered in footy tattoos, and desperate for a proper piss-up, in a opening surrounded by the cream of the artistic intellegencia! I spent my time with my one Becks (the bar went dry as I went in search of a second) looking about for someone famous, and trying to look intelligent. Humph gave me one good tip - just talk rubbish and they'll take you seriously, that's what they're all doing. So I spent my time practising talking rubbish to the wall until we were kicked out and went to a pub, cue serious drinking...
Saturday: Watched the first two series of Game On between late Friday night and today, a good accomplishment I'd say, then off to meet the first of our United list members, Wendy Lyon, a lovely woman who'd been spending her time in Scotland watching her other love, Celtic, before going to the Barcelona match and eventually ending up in a pub with me, Humph and Fi. Wendy was brilliant to talk football to - something I was seriously missing staying with the footy-hating Humph - and was even kind enough to bring me a Hibernian jersey. A few rounds preceded her arrival, many more after, and upon closing the place, we went of on a trek to find a decent club (all the one's I used to frequent are either closed or now doing posh shite!) and a place to use the toilet. Finding both, in different orders, we settled in the smallest 'indie' club in the world and preceded to drink it dry. No Boddingtons, unfortunately, but there you are. After eventually, and rather wobbly (I finally got pissed this night!) seeing Wendy to her night bus, we buggered off to Humph's and I got the few hour sleep on the air mattress before the 'Big Meet'.
Sunday: Got up with difficulty but woke up after the shower and I was off to meet Paul Windridge at Holloway Road station. Got there a half an hour early, so I spent the time reading, smoking many fags, and watching the many slap-headed men walking about until one came on the horizon bobbling up and down appropriately, and with my previous gen of Paul, I guessed rightly that that was he. With him was Richard M., who was to drive us back to Paul's later. Richard greeted me warmly and pissed off to meet his girlfriend, so Paul and I took hold of his keys (or electronic things as far as I could tell), and legged it off to his car to stash my million-ton bag in the boot before we met up with Mick Meade and a couple of friendly gooners at an Irish pub Mick quite likes.
I have to register my complaint at all of you lot having the indecency of being so damn tall! Between Paul, Mick, and Richard, I was starting to feel like Tattoo from Fantasy Island, and Mick's patting my on the gut and asking where that came from (drink , where else you Big Daft Sod) didn't help. Mick had previously given me the nickname (over the phone no less) of the Ugly Fat Bastard, so I don't know where his surprise was from. The truth hurts... I was quickly calmed when a pint of Boddingtons and my match ticket was placed in my hands, and we passed an enjoyable pre-match afternoon drinking and chattering about the state of football, the lunatic known as Murdoch, just what in the hell a Yank like me was doing supporting United, etc.
Eventually we made our way toward Highbury, with a quick stop at another pub for a quick one and a rallying of the forces. Walking toward the match I was slowly being overcome with the reality of my situation, that I was finally back in England and on my way to support our lads. I was literally shaking with nervous energy when Paul and Mick and I forced our way inside, into the crammed toilets, and back out to name a corner for meeting in at half time.
Mick and I found our seats, I can't remember the block, but to the left side of the away section, a few seats in from the isle, and we stood there for the remainder of the half. I can't describe what it was like watching the lads come out to warm up, and it fully hit me when Keano ran towards us. I can't describe what it was like when the song started up in full voice. In fact, I can't describe the football at all in detail, as it all just blurred into one awful and amazing grey. We were in great voice to start, and the highlight of the songs being the new 'There's only one Arsene Wenger' (to Walking in a Winter Wonderland):
There's only one Arsene Wenger x3 A packet of sweets and a cheeky smile Wenger is a f**king pedophile
What little I can remember is that we looked awful. Later I would here someone complain that he'd never seen us so bad, that we looked better in the drubbing against Newcastle. I just blamed it on myself (and so did Paul, calling me a jinx...:). Henning Berg looked awful, I hate to say, our defence was shite. What I can remember is that Blomqvist looked ok, running with the ball, but couldn't complete a proper cross, Becks looked the only player really trying (he looked good really), and Giggsy was absolutely out of place and ineffectual playing upfront. Sadly, this was to be the last I saw of our Giggsy this trip...
At the half, we piled out, not quite beaten thoroughly yet, and I was treated to meeting the infamous Alan Dobson (who was kind enough to keep the sausages hidden and flatulance free), who was looking rather worse the wear for what turned out to be a footy injury - he'd had his leg opened up by someone's studs (the ones on the boots, so no sick comments). I met a few others, but honestly I was so emotionally hyped up that I can't remember the names, I'm sorry! After a chatter we made our way up to where Paul was 'seated' and I was privilidged to meet the wonderful, lovely Linda, not to mention the son and hier! Linda greeted me with a hug which made me feel well and truly back at home, and we chatted until the lads returned to the pitch. We'd decided to remain up with Linda and Paul, so we turned our attention back to the match. Shortly after, Nicky Butt was unlucky to get his second red card in two matches, this time for what I will say from being right in front of him, was never a red card. It almost looked like he tripped (though from subsequent video replays, I will say he was going for it and probably deserved a yellow). This created a stir from all the standing Reds (frankly, all of us) and the entire crowd crushed forwards, all of us scream ing abuse at the ref, and me being flung down a few steps, only remaining upright by holding onto, and I think tearing, the shirt of another fellow list member who's name I've lost again (I'm so sorry, bide with me, I've the recall of a piece of wood).
The crush forward caught the attentions of the police who were walking up and down the steps chucking out Reds and checking on tickets for seat placements. We all crushed into the seats to avoid being checked, but I wasn't able to get in far enough, and I was sent off to my proper seats while Mick escaped notice (how they missed his giant bulk I'll never know). So, I spent the remainder of the match, head firmly in hands, near tears at times, by myself until just before time Mick came back to collect me. By this point the Reds were deadly silent, and at the whistle, we headed off.
Making our way out the ground we met up again with Dobson and a few others, and eventually found ourselves outside and hollering abuse at the people daft enough to try and drive through when they knew full well that a big match was on. After we rounded the corner, it went off a bit, though all I could see (Paul kept me back) was the police running forward, as inneffectual as usual.
We made our way back to the Irish pub, where Paul, Richard and I parted from Mick and his rather cheerful gooner mates and piled in the car for the long trip back to Leamington Spa, where Paul lives and I was staying. Emotion gave way to exhaustion, and I passed out in the car, waking just a few minutes from Paul's. Once in, Paul fed me (my first food of the day), and showed me to my room. After being introduced to Paul's lovely wife Karen, some talk, a little telly, and a guided tour, I was off to bed , and dead to the world.
The Trip Diary part 2: And the trek continues......
Mon: Woke up feel rather out of sorts for not sleeping too well. When head hit pillow (in the lovely room Paul Windridge gave me) I was shattered, but soon the wash of emotion following the Arse match returned - my head was filled, literally, with song and chants. Then I realised that that was that, new addiction time, that telly wasn't going to do it anymore. I'd realised at the match that what Peter Hargreaves had mentioned frequently too long ago was right - there's no replacement for being there. He was on about how on telly you only ever see about one fifth of a players game (something I will agree with now), but that's only part of it. If that's a bad atmosphere from a bad game and the whole thing's going down the tubes from what it used to be that I envy you lot from the old days, but the first bit, when the song started and the lads came out, that was fantastic to my 'virginal' senses. I want more of that!
Monday was spent with Paul, accompanying him on some of his various errands for his work. He was preparing for a massive hit of work, all coming at once, and hadn't the time to show me about as much as he'd of liked, but a quick tour of Coventry, complete with history lesson, and being dropped off for a free run about in Stratford was welcome (got mom a Romeo and Juliet programme as she was once Juliet in her Uni's production).
Eventually we were back at Paul's, and as he, Karen and Koo slaved over hot Macintoshes, I was sat in their front room rifling through Paul's collection of United programmes, scrap-books and everything! A happy few hours were filled with, for just one, reading the magazine released just after the 68 Euro Cup Final! (I quiet enjoyed George Best's article about protecting the right for a good piss up and playboy lifestyle whilst staying dedicated to the side, cheeky monkey!:). Soon I found myself sat infront the telly with a few documentaries on the Babes to keep me warm (I'm sorry Paul if I damaged the throw pillow crying into it). The emotional few hours watching was followed by the Testimonial match highlights, the end of which saw me in tears outside by Paul's goldfish pond, luckily, as that way I wasn't too embarrassed when Karen scared the shite out of me to tell me tea was on... :)
Paul, btw, makes an amazing Spinach Curry. I have to underline this by saying that I absolutely despise Spinach, but this was gorgeous!
Tuesday: Paul too busy to move, and IMUSA work coming in for him, so after a bit of time spent trying to arrange my trip up to Manc, I'm off for a wander about Leamington Spa. Not much to say,looked about at the nice town and ended up happily in a pub, reading the papers, and drinking a few Guinness.
Made the move to Manc that afternoon, saying a 'see you soon' to Paul and his lovely family. Once in Manc made a tourist of myself by having to call Linda to get re-directions to the Pub where I was to meet my host for that night, Andy Walsh, the president of IMUSA. I was to stay with family of Paul's, but they went away at last notice and so we scratched about and Andy volunteered. I was to meet Andy at an IMUSA 'meeting', arranged to stuff 28,000 letters to stock holders giving them the information no-one else has attempted to share about Murdoch's holdings, background, etc., and asking them if they agreed with us to not sell. I found the pub rather easily in the end (cheers Linda!) and with a quick pitstop to get a bitter (and accosted by lads in the pub who knew I was on my way to the IMUSA who, upon noting my kit bag, repeatedly asked if I had the full new kit to sell... Very funny, but I couldn't thing of reply, so there you go) I eventually made my way upstairs to start the letter stuffing.
I was pleased to see that the room was quite full of Reds (and I would find out, a Bitter Blue!) doing the neccessary in this war, and we made good time, managing to get most, if not all, of the damn letters stuffed by about 2am that morning. Not bad, though we'd have to be back the next day to label them all! After that,we head back to Andy's (we being myself, Andy, Morris, and the bitter blue: Andy's sister in law!).
Over whiskey and lagers we had a fancinating conversation about the Murdoch Wars, with Andy filling me in on some of the details I missed in the process of flying over and loosing touch with the loop. We spoke of the state of the Dodgers - a theme I returned to frequently as many didn't understand it (glad I was useful for something!), and of possible alternatives if we manage to bloke the Murdoch takeover.
Finally, and exhaustedly, we saw Morris off, and Andy and I headed to his 6 year old's bedroom, where I discovered I was to have the top bunk! I know you can't complain, managing to blag free bed after free bed, but this was hilarious! Honestly, though, I'd always wanted bunk beds, so this was the culmination of a childhood dream... :) Anyway - Andy was stuck with the bottom bunk! :)
Wedns: I can testify that if Andy Walsh doesn't get a break soon he's going to go mad, because after finally saying goodnight about half 3 the night before, I was awoken by the madhouse - kids and all - gearing for the day. It was something obscenely early like 7.30. Upon dragging my corpse downstairs I was greeted by a fully showered dressed and already on the damn mobile arranging interviews Andy! Nicely enough, Andy'd already arranged my day as well, I was to help Mark Longdon open the new IMUSA headquarters, sort out some computer problem for Pauline, who was printing even more letters, this time to be sent to some other colossal batch of somebodies, and essentially partner various IMUSA jobs about. So much for looking about Manc, I did manage to become rather well aquainted with Tib Street, what I'm told was once a lovely street full of pet stores and joke shops, only the massage parlors and sex shops continue the trade... At the new office (on Tib St), Mark and I set up the phone lines (ourselves to save money, this dealing mostly with me dangling bits of wire out windows for Mark to try and catch) and then we had a delightful time trying to record a message on the answer phone we'd nicked from Duncan D. At least fifteen minutes, I'd say, it took us to come up with 'You've reached the headquarters of IMUSA, if this is urgent call (insert Andy's mobile number here)'... After that I got stuck in transcribing addresses into a database on this odd little laptop whilst Mark and a couple of others who popped by set up this or that. We then set about attempting to get letter head printed for the gent who was trying to rustle up donations for us, leading to Mark having to go back to Andy's house, using my key (the one I ended up accidentally giving a tour of South England and Wales to by forgetting to give back to Andy!). When all was sorted, Mark got back to find me fast asleep on the computer... A bit too much fun for a simple drinking lad like me, all this... :) Oh, and Mark locked the key in Andy's, so I ended up waiting out front for the kind Bitter Blue to get back from fetching the kids before I could make my way in...
After a lovely tea with Sarah (Andy's wife), the kids and the Blue (Cath), I headed back to O'Brians (is that it?) to continue with the letter stuffing. This time round there was an awful lot less of us, but we rallied around all the tables so we were all sitting near each other, and with Mark L. providing musical background in his uncontrolled baritone (and he never did prove that he knew more than one line of any song, even his favourites. He did take requests eventually, but was better in the Tom Jones range than more modern ditties) we continued with the labelling. One of the people I was honoured to meet at this second section (ok, I didn't talk to anyone at the first really) was Duncan D., who I owe an email to (sorry Duncan). We chatted, hummed along with Mark, and stuck labels. Oh, and drank a bit. There was a point to all this! Sometime around 2.15am we finally finished (or so *I* thought), packed up the boxes, and headed to Andy's, where we unloaded the boxes, and settled down for some whiskey (we'd finished the lager the night before) before I was off to my top bunk around half 3...
Thursday: the day I've been waiting for. Liverpool at home. The night before Andy, after returning from London where he had to meet with someone or another about important IMUSA stuff (this lad never rests), asked me if I had a ticket to the match. 'Course I did as the great and fantastic Paul W. help sort me out, but it was in a girl's name (Karen's actually) and in a 'quiet' section of OT. Andy wouldn't hear of me sitting in a quiet bit for my first proper match at home, particularly against the fools, so we sold my ticket and Andy sorted out a K Stand one for me, to be picked up at a meeting place at the ground...
So, the day started much like the previous, but without me having to go to Tib Street (where, as it turned out, two people were shot in an Army and Navy Supply shop across the street whilst I slept on the computer... Nice area that Tib Street). After a morning (again obscenely early) sorting out all the damn letters into countries and whatnot, I spent most of this morning with Morris, jetting about the 'burbs, fixing people's computers (seriously), trying to find a store that might still have one of them little Eric figurines, and picking up diskettes for IMUSA.
Around 3.30, I was met at Andy's house by our own Peter Hargreaves, who'd invited me to tea at Hal and May Hargreaves' house. It was brilliant to finally put a face to Peter, not to mention to Hal and May who I've heard so much about. Never have I met such warm and open people. When we arrived at the House Hargreaves, H & M were out, so Peter and I set ourselves up in the yard where I could have a smoke, and we chatted about all things United. A few moments later, May and Hal came in and I was greeted like a long lost relative. Tea was made, and we sat in the back, me talking variously to Hal or May or Peter, whomever wasn't in on the cooking of our food at anyone time. Whilst Peter was digging out some United memorbilia, May and I had a lovely chat about the Second Hand Clothing shop she volunteers at. Peter eventually re-materialised with litterally tons of old photos and Match Programmes, including the biggest collection of Reserve team programmes I've ever heard of - many dating back to Hal's youth and Peter's childhood! Each one held a story, and we went through most of them, picking out names of people who would go on to be great, players who looked great but Peter said were never heard from again, etc. If I was amazed at Peter's memory, his dedication was never in question, and we worked our way towards the present, names even such as I could put stories to emerged. It was astounding! Peter also showed me the first programme after the Babes, with the empty slots in the diagramme, which brought a lump to my throat, and I could see affecting Peter as well. On a happier note, I was quite pleased to see that many of the old programmes had the player substitutions and scores marked carefully in, and I think I detected a trend here - some of Paul's had that too! :)
Shortly before food, Hal brought out a couple of innocent poloroid photographs, which knocked me to the floor. These simple photos depicted Hal and Sir Matt sitting in Hal's sitting room! I'm not sure if it was me sitting next to a man who knew Sir Matt or the reality of such a great man in such humble pictures, but it was simply awe inspiring. Hal went on to describe each night in detail, with Peter adding bits, and I felt myself becoming intertwinned with the history of our Club. The simple fact that the history of MUFC and the lives supporters, particularly the local ones, are so intertwined is amazing. There's no equivalent in the American Sport (or at least not one that has survived to my generation), and I felt elated to becoming a very very small part of this, sad that I never had this my whole life, and sorry for the way the future of sport in general is going, going away from this.
We wentin for tea and talk turned to Hals memories. We had an amazing time talking and eating (and they were fantastic to go out their way to lay on a vegetarian spread for me), and after desert (two helpings for me, cheers May!) and some tea, Peter Hal and myself got ready for the trip to the Throstles to meet up with the gang.
I was getting a bit fluttered, nerves at meeting everyone at once were overcoming me, but once settled into the corner of the Throstles, Boddingtons in hand, it was great. Linda was there, and we hugged and I was forced into the series of photographs I now dub the Throstles Sessions (where I proved once and for all that I am not photogenic, and the damn camera *did* add more than 10 pounds!). As bad as I looked, I'm still proud of the picture of me with Linda and Hal, and that's (apart from my weight) how I'm goin to remember this night.
Alan and Paul came along, and we all spoke of United past and present, of Murdoch (and the 'Red' Card flyers I was going to help IMUSA hand out, you know the ones that said 'Stop Murdoch'), and things in general. And we drank. I kept looking about feeling rather overwhelmed and unreal. After all this time of hearing about the place, and it was: Not what I bloody well expected that's what! I wasn't disappointed (no way!), just I thought the place was going to be bigger than a barn the way you lot always go on about it! Instead it was rather nicely laid out, fairly quiet at the early hour. After a few rounds and some brilliant talk, we made our way out of the pub and started the walk to the ground, Alan pulling on his 'Electric Bannana' costume (don't ask), and we were off.
Linda and I fell back of the others, talking about Eric, iconography in general, and the state of the side without such a massive leading figure. We discussed how 'Erics' have been in the game, and bemoaned the lack of them in the currents state. As a matter of fact, we talked so much that I was nearly knocked back when crossing a carpark and noticed OT in front of me, almost popping out of the ground since I'd been consentrating on our chat. As we approached Old Trafford, I felt my stomach twist with nerves and tears come to my eyes, and seeing the sign for Sir Matt Busby Way nearly killed me. As we filed down towards where I was to meet Andy, I kept silent, just sort of drinking in the atmosphere, which is sort of odd if you think about it! We did stop off to get the Red News, and I started doing my bit of handing out the flyer. Just as I reached the bottom of my handful, we bumped into a gent (who's name I can't recall) who had worked with me at the IMUSA office, who gave me more to hand out! I walked toward the ground backwards (not the best for full view), handing the things out.
One thing that disgusted me was the number of flyers that were just dropped to the ground. That and the people who just knocked through me and ignored the flyer. It's apathy that's going to destroy the game, not money. Even if you find that you support Murdoch's take over (god forbid, but even), you owe it to yourself and football to remain informed about every detail, so you don't just make a stupid gut decision.
We made our way over to the gift shop that (I thought) Andy had said to meet him in front of, and waited. And waited. Eventually, kick off imminent, Peter had to make his way inside to join Hal at their seats, and I ushered him along, saying that I'd find Andy and his bright orange jeans fine on my own. We set a meeting place for after the match, and Peter went off into OT. And I waited. And waited. Yelling borke out as the fool supporters showed up, and 'If you All Hate Scousers' went out loud, quite a number of ourlads turning and making way to the fools. I was getting desperate to find Andy and was straying a little away from the store looking for him, in my gut knowing I wasn't going to find him, and planning to make my way to the offices to have him paged when some fighting broke out, heartbreakingly right in front of Sir Matt's statue (where I wanted to meet Andy actually, luckily he had other ideas!).
It got rather rough for a few minutes, a Police Woman on a horse was toppled, horse and all, practically at my feet, and I stood back against the steel shutters that now closed the souvenier shop, trying to look hard enough to not get attacked, and soft enough so the police looking at me curiously wouldn't drag me off. A lad was brought out by the cops, arms bunged up behind his back, being hit with a truncheon (I dunno his colours but I think he was ours), and slammed against a wall near me. A few more were brought out and the fighting started to die as hordes were pushed towards the ground.
Shortly afterwards there was no-one left, and with 10 minutes gone into the first half, I wandered from shop to shop hoping Andy was still waiting for me. By quarter past I was having him paged (which I believe they never did), and as halftime came I knew I wasn't getting in. I started doing laps of OT, lower than I'd felt in years, chain smoking, wishing I could find a toilet (I know I know, there were some about, but I didn't see them!), and having 'If you All Hate Fat Bastards Clap Your Hands' (clever kids, remind me to do some work for a Birth Control organisation someday...). Not happy.
after parking myself infront of Sir Matt for a while's contemplation (we had a good chat), I did what any self-respecting tourist would do and spent some money at a stand, purchasing a Wembly '58 replica jersey and a couple of badges for my bombers jacket. Then I took to the streets and ended up at Lou Macari's Chip Shop and bought a chips and curry. Inside the girls were screaming, and I had to know why - the match was on the radio and Scholesie had just scored to make us 2 up! I heard about the pen (and had heard the screams so I was a bit aware in my meanderings), and all of a sudden the dark mood started to lift! I stood outside listening to the radio for the remainder of the match.
A couple of notes you might not like that only someone locked out could notice:
1) You lot were mad. I could hear the lyrics to *all* the songs we sang (you thing I was quiet even though outside?) clearly. 2) Fifteen minutes before time the 'executive seats' must have ejected or something as the parkinglot gate swung open and nothing but BMW's and Mercedes came pouring out. 3) A lot of people done up in new kits started the trek up to the chip shop.
Make of these what you will. I wasn't impressed.
About a half an hour after the end of match, Peter and Hal met up with me and both were visibly gutted when learning of my not getting in. The walk back was filled with it, but I was just happy to get their opinions of how well the lads played, almost feeling like I *was* there from the detail of their descriptions. One thing of note: at one junction Peter decided traffic wasn't coming fast enough and ran across, calling for us to follow. I did, worrying about Hal, who took off like a shot and beat me to the other side. I see Manchester breeds them hardy - must be something about all that standing in rough weather never missing a match!
By the time we reached the Throstles, I was dying for a pint, so we went in and watched some boxing whilst I drank and the two of them continued with the details. I dunno about what you all think, but I'd love to hea the likes of Hal Hargreaves doing the announcing at matches on telly. *Then* you'd hear some interesting and insightful commentary!
Afterwards, we went back to Hal and May's to drop off Hal, and quickly popped in to say hi to Peter's wife, Kathy. Instead of being quick, though, we opted for not and stayed for a cup of tea which went down a treat after all the emotion of the night, and a quick chat about my favourite film, Twin town (which happens to be from Swansea, where Kathy's from, and has a family member of her's in it somewhere!). It was hard to do so, but we eventually said tara and Peter took me back to Andy's, obviously curious (as was I) to know what had happened with our meeting.
Inside, Sarah was up and said that Andy was desperately trying to find me to figure out where I was! They thought I got lost, killed, or something, until we realised that I'd described the wrong damn souvenier stand to Peter and we were across the forecourt from each other! As it was, we should have seen each other had my forwad wanderings not been hampered by the damn scousers! So blame the Granny-robbers, and thank the lads for winning in my honour! :)
After a quick chat and more tea with Sarah, I was off to climb into my bunk for the first night I got into bed before 4am! And damn ready for sleep I was...
And in the next exciting installment: Fear and Loathing In Cardiff and Caerphilly; The Snipe Hunt for the Munich Match; Meeting the Meades; and Soton, here we come!
'1998 was a bad year for English football. It was the year David Beckham was villified.'
to be continued! Hal, Sean and Linda:
Sean Hennessey, President of Boston Reds
Member and co-admin of the Red Devils list: firstname.lastname@example.org
e-mail: email@example.com or firstname.lastname@example.org ICQ: 9288628
The RED end.
The can is empty..............
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