Quaint Old English Customs #4: Football on a Saturday

Quaint Old English Customs #4:
Football on a Saturday
by Ian Wigley

The main reason us English aren’t successful in the sports world is because we put all our eggs into one basket, namely we only give a hoot about one sport—football (soccer to the Americans and Canadians reading). Sure, we have other sports we like, cricket, rugby, tennis, and a few others, but the only sport us English really care about is football. Sad, but true.

Football is a religion in England. It’s the be-all and end-all for some folk (myself, I can take it or leave it). It’s an expensive hobby is football, £30+ per ticket is the cheapest seat at most Premiership grounds. Sure, there are savings to be made if you buy a season ticket, but even then you don’t save a lot. Then there’s travel, food, if you have children their tickets too. It can be a small mortgage, that obsession with football.

But anyway, hundreds of thousands of people head to football matches in England each Saturday from August through May each year. But believe me, football is more than just the game, it’s a day out, a day filled with a cornucopia of experiences that make Saturdays between August and May so truly wonderful. Here goes...

Up early on a Saturday morning, the weekend is well under way, and this afternoon—because Rovers are at home—it means any jobs that need doing won’t get done. So, it’s up with the Lark as there are chores to be done. For all you fellas with girlfriends or wives, you rightly know that it’s important to keep them happy. What my friend Andy Horton and I have learned to do in the past to keep our girlfriends happy (thus enabling us to go to the pub on a Saturday afternoon) is to do the ironing. Iron like there’s no tomorrow on a Saturday morning, and then Saturday afternoon is our own. This is a tactic that frees a lot of men up to go to the football on a Saturday afternoon. Any chore done on a Saturday morning which helps the woman is good, it’s like a bartering system, y’know, you play ball with me, I play ball with you. Do the washing, do the ironing, tidy the house, cut the grass, mend the dog, feed the car, anything...as long as it allows you to get out on Saturday afternoon.

So, your average football fan on a given Saturday morning will have ironed lots and made breakfast and ran out to pick up supplies, and the rest...it’s the carrot given to the rabbit known as woman. Once the rabbit has chewed on the carrot, then Saturday afternoon is free for all manner of fun. This fun starts at about 12pm, in anticipation for the game’s 3pm kick off. The aforementioned fun starts in the pub (of course) with many other like-minded individuals. The best way to kick off a Saturday afternoon of football is in the tavern.

“Pint of bitter, please." Four great words, as they mean the day of football is underway. From here on out it’s just fun. The woman is out shopping and spending your wages, the dog is asleep, and you’re in the pub with your buddies. Talk is inevitably about three main topics—football, sport and work—the first two being more predominant.

There’s always chat about the game ahead, it’s the most important part of today, right? Then there’s chat about football generally, you know, how Chelsea are probably going to walk the Prem. if Man U don’t get their act together, and how The Blades aren’t doing as good as they’re capable of, and how much everyone hates Steve McClaren for what he did to David Beckham. There might be talk about how England is doing in their One Day International series against India’s cricketers. There could be talk about how Tim Henman is never going to win Wimbledon because he simply isn’t good enough. And then there’s talk about The Boss, and how he made us all work so hard this week but also forgot to give us more money for our extra labour.

This pub activity is so ace. The pub fills more and more as the game grows ever closer (it’s customary to go to a pub close to the ground, thus meaning the journey to the ground isn’t too troublesome). Voices get louder as people shout over other people, and pints get spilled as people jostle their way towards the bar, bumping into each other. Then there’s the away fan. The away fan in the home pub.

“Your boys are gonna get a good hammering today,” s niggers a home fan, as he playfully goads the away fan.

“I don’t think so,” replies the away fan with a smile.

And a brief friendship is borne. Home are now chatting with Away. Tactics are discussed between the two sets of supporters (despite neither set of supporters having anything to do with how the game will be played). Experiences of games past are shared, talk of how the away fans journey here was, and general good humoured banter is exchanged.

2.45pm arrives, and the pub is almost empty, except for the hardcore drinkers. Last mouthfuls of beer are necked, and then it’s the brisk walk to the ground that is the next venture. Due to the alcohol in their systems and the cold air outside, the hardcore drinkers are made to walk faster because alcohol and cold makes you want to go to the toilet. So, faster the walking becomes, until we meet our friend The Programme Seller.

Programmes at football matches in England are overpriced and awful, but everyone still buys them, as it’s part of the day. After overpriced programmes have been purchased, it’s through the turnstile and into the ground. Then, first things first, read the programme. See what the manager has to say about the game, the team, the away team and things in general. Maybe have a look at the programme’s away team pages, to see the nature of the beast ‘we’ are facing, and then it’s approaching kick-off time. The ground is full, volume levels are rising, anticipation is growing for the game ahead of us. It’s 2.58pm and the teams walk out to plenty of applause and much cheering. All that remains now, for the time being, is the game.

The game gets underway and the football fan’s fortunes are in the hands of the 11 players on his team, and (hopefully) the misfortunes of the 11 players on the opposition's side. Songs are sung, cries of “ooooooh” are abound as balls hit crossbars and posts and keepers’ gloves, and a whole range of emotions are experienced even in the first few minutes. The referee always takes some stick at football matches

“Did they pay you to give decisions like that, ref?” “Are you blind?” “You bald-headed get!”

All lines of insult are thrown at the man in black, our ref. Ref just smiles as he hears insults in quieter moments. It’s all part of his day; that’s what he gets paid for.

Whether there are goals or not, football is enjoyable, even on some of the worst games. It’s this level of enjoyment that keeps bringing people back. It’s tradition, it always has been...the game can be awful, but the average football fan knows he’ll be back the following week, rain or snow.

Half-time approaches, and there is a migration of people from seat to concessions stall, namely the pie counter. You have to have a pie at half-time at a football game, it’s a mandatory requirement. If you don’t have a pie (and perhaps some mushy peas to go with it), you might as well have stayed at home. Football ground pies are so good, they are the perfect accompaniment to the half-time whistle. Put some peas with them, and there you have it—the food of lords. The best pie and peas in the country can be found at The Turnbull Ground in Whitby (North Yorkshire). Yes, the person who makes peas for Whitby Town’s pie counter ought to be knighted.

At more upper-crust grounds, alcohol is served (under the stands, never out in the open air) and so it’s customary that if beer is served, then it should be consumed. The beer at football grounds is overpriced and tastes not like it should. But, hey, it’s the match, and so beer will be purchased. After pie and peas have been finished, it’s generally time for the second-half, not 15 minutes since the end of the first-half. The fortunes of the teams everyone has paid good money to see will be determined by these next 45 minutes.

As the game gets underway once more, it starts to get darker (football is predominantly an Autumn and Winter game) and the floodlights are turned on. The game is more finished now than started. Hearts beat faster towards the end of the game as the result is imminent, adrenaline flows freely through the veins of the people in the ground. Radios are held to the ears of supporters, eager to get the results of teams close to them in the table. It’s a roller-coaster ride which lasts 90 minutes, and now there are only a few minutes of these 90 left.

As the final whistle blows there can be one of three results for each respective supporter—a win, a loss or a draw. The respective supporter will be either, happy, sad, or content with a point (a draw). Teams are either clapped off or booed off depending on the strength of performance. If the referee changed the game by a dubious decision (be it a penalty decision, a red card, a dodgy offside call or what), he will be slated as he heads towards the tunnel. As I mentioned, that’s what he’s paid for. Even though your average supporter might yell obscenities at the referee, it will never change the decision he made which might have changed the game...but it will make the supporter feel better to get it off of his chest.

So as the fans leave the ground, opinions are exchanged between them about the 90 minutes of football they’ve just encountered.

“We were robbed!” “They were crap!” “So-and-so could have done better.” “If only we’d have scored that penalty!”

Would-be football managers filing out of the ground give opinions on things they’re probably not qualified to give. People moan when the result has gone the wrong way, people laugh at the misfortunes of others when the result has gone the right way, people’s spirits are raised by a victory, talk is talked about where this will put their club in the table given the results of other teams. It’s a myriad of comment.

After the game has finished there’s only one place to go—back to the pub. Drink to drown sorrows or toast success, whichever is appropriate. It’s time once again to talk with friends and fellow supporters in the warm confines of the public house, where beer will once again flow freely. Opinions on the last 90 minutes will be exchanged, and ridiculous suggestions as to what ‘we’ could have done that would have won ‘us’ the game. It’s all part and parcel of the football day.

After the last pint has been drunk, people file out, heading to the bus stop for the short journey home. When the short journey home is finished, it’s time for tea (food tea, not drink tea) and the chance to digest the day’s football elsewhere, the results which might determine the fortunes of the teams people support. The day is nearly done, it’s almost time for the supporter to put his feet up and watch the poor selection of television that adorns our television screens on any given Saturday night.

As early evening becomes night time, Saturday is done for the football fan. He might get a few cans in (beer, you understand) and watch Match of the Day (football highlight show) and then retire to bed around midnight. All that remains of the weekend now is Sunday, where ironing again needs to be done in the morning in order to allow for valuable time spent in the pub on a Sunday dinner-time.

Football, I love it.

Ian can be reached at ian@babblog.com.