4th March 2005
By
Jody Jamieson
It's the night before Chelsea at home last season. I've only recently
moved to the North East, and my mate John from back home (who many
of the forum regulars have met) was coming down a lot, partly due
to being single, and partly due to the fact that he's a sucker for
a good night out. And the night before Chelsea was no exception. We
went out. Me on the Diet Coke, him on whatever he could get his grubby
little hands on. We started off in Jesmond but as always we ended
up out in town with me positively vibrating due to Diet Coke, and
him positively talking pish due to numerous ridiculous drinks you'd
struggle to pronounce sober. We had a long long night. A night that
culminated in us putting my flatmate BA up for sale on e-bay.
10 days later we got a cool 10 pounds and 50 pence from a guy in BA's
American Football team, the Edinburgh Wolves, who just happens to
be a Polish/French guy who likes pig porn. With BA being a big lad
as those who've met him will justify, the thought of paying the postage
and packing on him was the equivalent of open wallet surgery, so we
sensibly gave the responsibility of P&P; to the buyer. But anyway,
back to the night before.....
So we watched films, John talked pish, BA suspected we were selling
him on e-bay, and John talked more pish. Overall a great night out
had became a bizarre and hilarious night in that lasted well into
the early morning. I had planned for a quiet night in and an early
night so I'd be fully refreshed in time for the Chelsea game the next
day. A crucial game in our quest for the last Champions League spot
against Roman Abramovich's bankrolled team of stars. Wasn't going
to be easy, but hell, at least I know if it was a shite game and we
were getting hammered I'd be sitting there glum as fuck on bugger
all sleep wishing that I was still in bed.
Has anyone ever had one of those dreams where you just can't get to
the match on time? Fuck knows what it means but I tend to find myself
stuck in Berwick for the 3 o'clock kick off, looking at my watch at
it's quarter to 3, just trying and trying and trying to get to the
match, and ultimately failing. Occasionally my dream ends with Newcastle
either beating one of the big guns, or winning 7-0, or 7-6, or something
crazy like that. I had a dream that night that the same thing had
happened. That I'd woken up at half time and we were 2-1 up, with
a Shearer goal putting us ahead. I got to the ground just as the full
time whistle blew and we'd won 2-1.
After turning in at about 8am the night before, with a 2pm kick off
to come, naturally the "SHITE, WHAT'S THE FUCKING TIME?!?!" Panic
came upon me when I woke up. I had a cold sweat when John knocked
on my bedroom door the next day. Frantically searching for my mobile
to check the time, knowing full well that it would probably say half
4 or something as stupid as that. John calm as you like asks "What
time is kick off today?" I'm starting to lose the plot as I realise
I've left my mobile in the living room. "2 o'clock I reply."
"It's 20 to 2."
"FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK!!!"
I lived in Sandyford, right next to the Blue Bell pub for those who
know the area (I had a pub on my bloody street and I think I only
ever went in there twice. Spot the teetotaller!) and When I left out
of bed if I'd jumped any higher I'd have landed in their rubbish excuse
for a beer garden. Toon shirt on, jumper on, Lynx spray on, trousers
on, out the door! Shite, it's a heat wave. Better hoy the jumper off.
I must have looked like one of those weird Moroccan 20 km walkers
heading up the steepest road in Tyne and Wear and I waddled up to
Sandyford Road with my horizontal mow hawk (who needs to brush their
hair when the match is about to start and I've slept in!) as my rubbish
excuse for hair.
I keep walking along Sandyford Road towards Northumbria University.
It's 1.49. 11 minutes till the kick off, and in the shape I'm in there's
no way I can run it without passing away to a better place so I frantically
search for a taxi. The fact that I've made it from my bed to Sandyford
Road in 9 minutes is a minor miracle, one that I'm sure I'd have never
repeated no matter what was on offer at the top of the road.
No taxis about so I keep walking. Suddenly just as I get to the Threshers
shop 2 taxis go hurtling by. The first one poetically ignores me,
but the second one stops. Result! As close to St James Park as it
can take me ends up the bottom of the road at the 24 hour coffee shop.
That bloody pink thing. I could tell you a tale about that 24 hour
coffee shop which is as bizarre and strange as it isn't seedy or illegal,
but that's for another day. It's 1.55 and somehow I'm going to get
in on time.
I walk past the Strawberry and the strange sensation of actually being
able to hear the crowd inside the ground makes the day seem worthwhile.
The fact that there's likely to be an atmosphere makes me happy. The
fact that I'm actually going to be in my seat in time for kick off
makes me laugh and phone John in a fit of bemusement and amusement.
And amusement which disappears when Joe Cole walks in unchallenged
and puts Chelsea one up. I want to go back to bed.
All is not lost though and we put in a sterling first half performance.
Ambrose is excellent, and Shola makes Marcel Desailly look like David
Baddiel and we score a deserved equaliser. We go into half time 1-1
and in my cockiness with my early arrival I even found time to buy
the new Mag before I entered the Gallowgate, so I settled down to
read it at half time.
Second half starts and Shearer scores the goal that makes my mad dash
all worthwhile, almost bursting the net as Ambrosio I think his name
is, watches it fly past him and into the net. It was worth getting
out of bed for that alone. All of a sudden I remember my bizarre dream
and sit back and enjoy the rest of the game, safe in the knowledge
that my dream was a mere premonition and cursing the fact I didn't
get up at half 1 and find the time to have a punt at the bookies.
(It was 35/1 on 2-1 Shearer last scorer. As I met fellow board member
Jill after the game and she seemed fairly chuffed with her win)
I must have been the only fan in the ground who was smoking an imaginary
cigar when John Terry somehow hit the post with a header even Ann
Boleyn would have scored, as he somehow contrived to miss with the
goal at his mercy. I just knew that when Shearer scored that a 2-1
win was ours even if we'd have played till midnight. I then went home,
told John about my premonition, who obviously thought I was talking
pish, and then we went out and had a cracking night on Osbourne Road
in Jesmond.
Your bed is the greatest place in the world, and sometimes it's a
complete pain in the arse to get out of it, but when it's to watch
the Toon the impossible can be achieved. I challenge you to get from
the Blue Bell in Sandyford to St James Park in 20 minutes on a match
day, without phoning up a taxi. To make it even more fun fall asleep
on the pool table and then try it on waking up. It's harder than it
sounds! |
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