Something stinks
Madejski Reading 1 Burnley 1, 9th September 1998
Firmo
There are some games, some days, that
deserve a broader canvas to do them justice. This is one.
The day started early, an afternoon off work,
and, yes, a few drinks. All the while, in the back of our minds, even as we failed
miserably to rise to the challenge of the Monopoly Quiz machine in Caversham, was the
question of how we would get to the ground. Consequently we set off ridiculously early,
and at about twenty past seven the taxi dropped us off close to the ground. This was
horribly premature by our admittedly skewed standards.
Not to worry. We then discovered it took another
twenty minutes to walk to the ground. This was weird. We could see the thing shining in
the distance, but however much we walked it never seemed to get any nearer. It took us a
while to realise that, not only was there just the one road to the ground, but it
performed an elegant curve around it before finally fetching up there. To get to the
ground, it was therefore necessary to circle it. So we trudged on, down the muddy dirt
track, with its theoretical pavement designated by cones and string. We had much time to
examine the strange terrain around the ground, part lunar landscape, part battlefield.
There was an odd, rustic smell in the air, and in the distance, we could make out a faint
glow in the sky. It must have been the lights of distant civilisation.
Just a thought, but why didn’t they build
the ground in Reading?
After asking a few stewards whether they knew
where the away end was (aren’t they supposed to know stuff like that?) we got in,
took our seats high up and looked down. So here we were, in the Majestic Ground, or
whatever the hell it’s called, a grotesque monument to overbearing vanity compromised
only by the instincts of a notorious tightwad. They had clearly planned an ambitious
ground. Then they’d looked at the price. Then they’d said, this is what
we’ll pay, now build a ground for this. Contrary to most people, I didn’t find
the ground impressive. I think this is what we’ve all been told a good ground looks
like, so when we see one, we let ourselves be fooled. In any case, no ground can be
considered in isolation to its surroundings or (lack of) infrastructure. Or, to put it
another way, no ground can be called good if it takes two hours to get out of the carpark.
I felt sad for the Reading fans, for this is
their new home. I imagined their disappointment on the dawning of the first day of this
horribly flawed new era. After all, Elm Park was an inaccessible tip, so this would be
something. They must have endured the long, weary wander to the ground, thinking, okay,
it’s not quite ready yet, and it’ll be better when they build that road next
year, but wait until we get inside. They must have tried to pretend that from the outside
it didn’t look squat and from the inside didn’t look like an ill-matched
collection of shop-bought stands haphazardly joined together, seats scattered in
apparently random fashion. They must have tried to pretend they liked it here, because
like it or not, it had been decreed that this was their new home, and they may as well
try. But most of all, beyond all that, as they approached the ground and took their seats,
they must have tried very hard to pretend that they couldn’t smell shit.
Methane, I should say, if I’m being kind.
The ground was built on a dump. There are vents to let out the methane underneath. This
means methane wafts over the ground. And as you sit there, it stinks. Did I mention
it’s also next to a sewage farm?
Imagine having all that as your home. You’d
have to pretend you liked it, so as not to lose face. Personally, I’d stick to away
games. So, I felt sorry for the Reading fans. I just didn’t feel sorry enough to hope
they didn’t go down and we wouldn’t have to come to this god-forsaken corner of
the earth again.
Ideas for songs we had during the game:
"you’re shit and you smell of it," "shit ground, shit smell,"
"what’s it like to smell of shit?" We actually sung "Reading,
what’s the smell?" when they taunted us over their one goal lead.
The £2 programme talked of the "impressive
facilities" us visiting Clarets would enjoy, as if we were going to emerge
caveman-like from our primitive northern abodes and stand awe-struck at the wonder of it
all. This suggested profound ignorance on the part of those who run the club. It also
suggested they hadn’t been to our ground. Impressive facilities must have meant
working toilets - but you get those everywhere now - and a choice of a hot dog or Cornish
pasty for £2 a throw. So that’s, like, less impressive than Millwall then. Among
impressive facilities not on offer were simple things like accessibility, public transport
and, oh, safety. Two exits from the away end with no rails down steep rakes of steps means
someday someone will get hurt trying to get out of there. Impressive facilities or not,
this is now the worst ground in the league. Official.
Still, all signs around the ground bore the
words "Madejski Stadium." It was written at least once on each page of the
programme. Even the humourless androids selling over-priced food had sweatshirts with it
written on. Ego trip, anyone?
Fortunately for us, Mr Madejski’s ego is
satisfied with his nasty ground, and does not require the satisfaction of a decent team to
play in it. Any side that doesn’t beat us when a goal up against ten men at home is
clearly not worth its salt. They could have had a couple before half time. The one they
got came after half an hour when Gavin Ward did well to save a shot but blamelessly
couldn’t hold the rebound. They also hit the post one time. Things got worse when
Peter Swan was sent off for a tackle from behind five minutes after the goal. I suppose we
can’t get worked up about it, as those are the new rules; I merely hope that all such
tackles will be punished in the same way. I’m sure Andies Cooke and Payton will agree
we have more to gain from that than lose.
The defence re-organised by moving Armstrong to
partner Reid and dropping Robertson back from left midfield to leftback. At half time
Carr-Lawton came on for the ineffectual Carl Smith to play at first in left midfield.
Ronnie Jepson, who’d had a bad-tempered and less than useful time of it, then went
down with what was later revealed to be a snapped tendon. Nasty. As he was cradled from
the pitch, Chris Scott joined the fray at right back, where he impressed with his keenness
and aggression, and Armstrong was pushed into his best position of midfield alongside
Payton, with Carr-Lawton joining Cooke in the attack. Got that?
The team was now makeshift to say the least,
with many players out of position. I’ve tried to keep track of all the positional
changes, but I may have missed a few. In all, Mark Robertson proved there are three more
positions in which he cannot hold his own. Yet, cruel as it is to say, Jepson’s
injury proved the turning point. We started attacking with much greater fluency. We should
have had a penalty when Andy Payton was held back in the box, but the referee waved play
on. That was no surprise, as throughout the game he favoured Madejski Reading with his
decisions and booked several of our players, most absurdly Glen Little for getting fouled.
It was pretty much ten against twelve. But who was the guilty man? Why, Paul Danson,
dropped from the premier league list for incompetence, and therefore deemed adequate for
our level.
When the goal came it was well deserved, coming
after a spell of pressure and flowing play in which it looked like we had the extra man.
We got a few corners, and in the absence of the injured Paul Smith, didn’t waste them
all. Armstrong and Reid played with total commitment and looked like they’d played
for us for years. Colin Carr-Lawton worked hard, impressed and come close with a shot.
Glen Little turned their left back hither and thither every time he got the ball, adding
another inspirational performance to a string of man of the match games. It was he who
beat a couple of men - how we take that for granted - and crossed for Payton, whose
crucial first touch took it past the goalkeeper before he fired home.
Behind the goal, we went mad. Much shouting,
screaming and, I am afraid, triumphalist gesturing at the Reading fans. Goals are rarely
so satisfying. There are times when you deserve a goal so much that you fear it will never
come.
While we were still celebrating Reading nearly
scored, crashing a shot against the bar and failing to take the rebound. It would have
been cruel and unjust. We remained the better side, had all the play, and for a while the
extraordinary thought of coming from behind and winning with ten men, like other sides do,
seemed reasonable. Only in the last five minutes did we slow it down, perhaps remembering
what had happened when we went chasing the win at Walsall. We were all happy enough to
take a point.
At the final whistle we greeted it like a win.
I’m told Reading booed their team, but I couldn’t hear anything above our
cheers. Our less than huge following made a lot of noise. The team, too, celebrated as if
we’d got the win, punching fists in the air, handclapping and running over before
being applauded off. It had been a fantastic second half. A couple of times the next day I
found myself telling people that we’d won 1-1.
Then we had to leave. What I realised afterwards
is that the crucial question in any ground’s location is not how easy is it to get to
the ground; it’s how easy is it to get back afterwards. New grounds like Millwall and
Walsall are in this respect ideal: you get out of the ground, get on the train, and
you’re quickly on the move. Judged from this perspective, Reading’s ground is
nothing short of a disaster.
As it happened, a friend and I were lucky; we
got to Reading station to catch trains home a mere hour after the game had ended. It was
pure chance. I’d done everything but promised my first born to get the cab driver to
pick us up after the game, but when after fifteen minutes of high speed circular mud
sliding we got to the rendezvous, he wasn’t there. Who can blame him? There must be
easier fares. Wearily we resigned ourselves to a long trudge home. By pure fortune, half
an hour after the game, we found ourselves in what must be the nearest pub. Bizarrely, I
could remember the number of a Reading cab firm. Ridiculously, they came straight away
(ordered in the name of Peter Swan). Amazingly, I got back to London a little before
midnight. I reckon that’s as fast as you can do it. Which is a disgrace. This is
worse than Wycombe.
In the week of the BSkyB / Man Utd take-over and
the continuing debate over the European "super" league, here was another shining
example of how football has lost its way and continues to treat the people who’ve
sustained it through thick and thin with contempt. Madejski Reading did all they could to
spoil the day. It’s a credit to our team and manager that they didn’t succeed.
Team: Ward, Robertson, Armstrong,
Brass, Swan (SO 35), Reid, Little, Jepson (Scott 58), Cooke, Payton, C Smith (Carr-Lawton
45). SNU: Heywood.
Links
- More from this game and the
home game
