John is a lifelong supporter of Sheffield Wednesday. And the fact I’ve seen more of their games with him than I have of any other team pretty much makes me a Wednesday supporter too. On this occasion we had persuaded Freddie to come along to their away game against Fulham FC.
We love a good football match, and the Wednesday supporters do too. So we spent a good ninety minutes getting really lairy and shouting as hard as we could. To be honest I’m proud to call myself a Wednesday supporter, because the atmosphere they have at away games is like nothing I have ever beheld. The stand is always full to the brim with those who have travelled many hours from up North, and who exude the most incredible amount of passion I have ever seen. I love Sheffield Wednesday.
We were already pretty smashed before our arrival at the ground, and on top of that we’d brought some disgustingly strong ‘shit mixes’ as well. No doubt involving a lot of gin/vodka/whisky and very little mixer.
Unsurprisingly by the end of the match (a satisfying loss) we were utterly off our faces. John especially. Classic John.
On the way out the stadium John found on the floor something that could only be described as an inflatable clitoris. I don’t know if that’s what it was – I don’t know why anyone would ever think to make such a thing – but that’s what it looked like. Of course John wore it as a handbag for the remainder of the evening:
But this wasn’t the only mischief John got up to on the way out of the stadium. Next up he came across a portable food trolley. He pushed it around pretending to be the catering fellow, and knocked over a huge gas canister. As he clumsily picked it up a security guard ran over. Utterly convinced by John’s facade he helped John to pick up the canister and reattach it to the cart. It wasn’t until John started picking up stacks of pint glasses up and inserting them into random slots that security man picked up on the ruse.
He looked concerned. And called to his buddies.
Within 5 seconds John was completely surrounded by security.
Thus began a very long-winded removal of John from the premises. He tried his best reasoning skills, but the security men were having none of it. They even refused to have a photograph with his clitoris. And so off we went. Into the road.
Which was where we had a wrestle. John threw Freddie to the floor. I threw John to the floor. John threw me to the floor. I threw John’s shoe into a bush.
John was not best pleased. Especially when it looked like the shoe was a permanent loss. We were there for God knows how long searching. High, low, in shrubs, in mud. But eventually we found it. John returned it to his foot, much happier, before we moved a whole 20 yards to the lake. Where we found some very very large rocks.
If there’s one thing that provides a drunken football fan with entertainment, it’s very large rocks.
We spent quite some time flinging them into the lake. I have no idea why. But it was great fun.
Didn’t do a great deal for our clothes though:
This was exhausting. But we weren’t done yet. It was Christmas after all. We headed to the bus stop. On the way someone ran over the most expensive string of cars I have ever seen, one straight after the other.
Jaguar, Mercedes, Range Rover, Aston Martin, Audi, Porsche.
But despite the distraction we did eventually make it to the bus stop. Freddie had given John a dodgy card that wouldn’t scan properly. The bus driver got very angry and refused to move the bus until John paid. There was a very big debate for at least 5 minutes in which the bus sat still and the passengers began to get very restless. Then they got very angry.
Through some means, though I have yet to find out – a miracle no doubt – John and Fred were eventually let on.
By way of apology to the passengers we sang the entire Twelve Days of Christmas as loudly as we possible could. I’m sure they loved it.
We continued until we reached Hammersmith Broadway bus station. Where we decided to sing Twelve Days of Christmas again. From the top balcony in the shopping mall. To the crowds of Christmas shoppers below. At 6pm on a Saturday evening.
I think of all the compliments thrown our way, ‘OI! SING IN TUNE!’ was my personal favourite.
John got a falafel-based snack and made a huge mess:
So as recompense me and Freddie scarpered. Freddie ran to the top floor balcony armed with a sachet of mayonnaise. I waited until John meandered into the perfect spot, lost in his own world of wonder. Then gave Freddie the signal.
He hit the bullseye, mayonnaising John’s shoulder until he looked like a well saturated french fry.
Freddie dashed down the stairs so as to make it look like an attack by an unruly stranger. Our acting was faultless. And John doesn’t know the truth to this day.
By this point we had caused quite enough damage to the realm of West London. So we got the bus home.
But not before having an obscenely large water fight in the bus queue, in which John got in a fight for soaking an innocent lady.