I generally enjoy my visits to Fulham.
Burnley’s trips to London are rare enough to make them something special, it’s a
nice part of London with some good pubs, and the ground’s got more character than
many. This time, with an afternoon off work at my disposal, I determined to make the most
of it. After all, the chances are slim that we’ll go there next season.
But one thing usually spoils Fulham for me: the stewarding. It did this
time. You see, I object to being searched inside the ground. It doesn’t make sense.
You pay to get in and then they decide whether they’re going to let you see the game.
I customarily complain about this. It’s my little Fulham game. I ask why they search
us after we’ve paid and try half-heartedly to avoid being searched.
That’s the game, only this time they changed the rules. I made my
usual objection and the next thing I knew, I was being forcibly ejected from the ground.
Two or three stewards shoved me against a wall and then out through a gate. In the process
I lost some of the contents of my pockets, a badge I was wearing – it must have been
where one of them grabbed me – and a sizeable cheque I’d been handed earlier,
although this loss was temporary, as when I pointed out that it was lying on the ground
they were good enough to pick it up and throw it onto the pavement outside. Then without
quite knowing how, or why, I was outside the ground, staring at a shut gate. I’d been
in perhaps five seconds, and I was £13 lighter.
As it happens, I was not alone. A friend had tried to intervene to ask
what was going on and had been shoved out with me.
It was pretty heartbreaking. Here I was outside a London ground in which
Burnley were playing, with it quickly becoming apparent that I wasn’t going to be
allowed back in. We even heard the roar after Paul Cook’s goal, and it can’t get
much more frustrating than that. The police, naturally, couldn’t do anything.
It’s odd, some of the things they can and can’t do. Inside the ground was not
their jurisdiction, and there were powerless. The impotence of the law is a sad thing.
Of course, our main mistake to stay and try to argue our case. I can see
that now. What we should have done was cut our losses, moved away quickly, and gone into
another part of the ground. In fact, one policeman informally advised us that this would
be our only chance of seeing the game. However, in staying and pleading our reasonable
cause, we drew attention to ourselves. For, if inside was out of bounds for the fuzz, the
exterior was very much their domain. Asked what he would do if we tried to get back in,
the worst of the bunch, officer FF130, replied that he would arrest us behaviour likely to
cause a breach of the peace. Marvellous. He meant it too. When I leaned across a turnstile
to ask one of the operators if he could raise the Chief Steward (said turnstile man
commented 'they're terrible here'), FF130 nearly nicked me. He promised to follow us if we
moved away to stop us getting in again. He wasn’t too sure what he’d do if we
went in separate directions, though.
I had an interesting conversation with FF130, which from memory went as
follows:
Me – I don’t suppose you’re bothered, but have you any idea
what a miserable night this has turned out to be? Have you ever been in this kind of
situation?
FF130 – Yeah, I’ve had loads of problems with away supporters.
Me – No, what I meant was, have you ever been on the other side of
something like this?
FF130 – I’m not a football fan.
Me – Well, what about just generally in life?
FF130 – I don’t understand what you’re talking about.
Me – Thanks, I think you’ve answered my question
The Chief Steward was a remarkably difficult man to get hold off. None of
the police seemed to know where he was or have his number. I hope they never have a fire
there. Club minions, all smartly dressed in a corporate uniform, as befits a nouveau riche
going places kind of enterprise, could only say that he was "a very busy man." I
suppose he was, whereas, with our expected evening’s entertainment having fallen
through, we didn’t have much else to occupy our time.
I never did get to speak to the Chief Steward. I only got as high up in
the hierarchy as the Safety Officer, Mr Stuart Farrar (who was, of course, as they always
are, an ex-policeman). He was quite polite, and calmly explained that we would not see the
game and we should write to the club. I had been ejected for refusing to be searched, and
my friend had been ejected for causing trouble. Not that I had refused to be searched
– I’d just questioned them about it, at worst objected – and not that my
friend had been causing trouble – he’d just tried to get them to stop throwing
me out – but what’s new? Anyone who has been to any amount of away games knows
that football supporters don’t have civil liberties. Habeas Corpus stops at the away
end. From that point on until you get some distance from the ground and you rejoin the
normal public ranks, you are guilty unless they don’t want you to be.
And, in retrospect, we should have known not to speak our minds at Fulham.
For their stewards have proved themselves an unreasonable lot. We’ve known them
confiscate umbrellas. Last time we played there a man had an electric razor in his bag.
They removed the batteries. Try telling someone who doesn’t go to games that you
can’t risk taking a brolly on an uncovered end in case they confiscate it. And if
either of these people who'd been relieved of their property had complained too longly or
loudly, do you think they’d have seen the game?
In football, there is one ultimate law. In its condensed form it reads
something along the lines of: do what we tell you or you won’t see the game.
It’s remarkably effective. The power to deny access to the game for any reason is a
crude weapon, but it works. Most of us will shoulder a heap of indignities to see the
game. I mean, if we go to Fulham again, do you think I’d complain? I’d keep
quiet and ‘consent’ to be searched as thoroughly as they wish. I don’t like
missing games. I’ll be the silent one at away grounds for a while after this.
I’m aware I can have a big mouth at times, and I know I’d had
some beers, but stewarding and policing irritates me and it’s something I often
complain about, as do other people I know. Generally it results in an exchange of
opinions. In all my years of doing this, it’s never ended up in me being ejected.
Here, it was simply the first thing they thought of doing. Even the middle ground of a
warning that if I persisted, I would be ejected, would have sufficed. Why did I get the
feeling that the mean-faced steward who chucked us out was looking for someone to expel?
So, partly this is a warning for other fans who have yet to undergo the
Craven Cottage Experience: for heaven’s sake just do what you’re told. Their
stewards have always been fussier than most, and to that seems to have been added a kind
of ‘we’re a big club in the making’ arrogance. It’s bad enough from
their arriviste new supporters, but intolerable in those who exercise power over you.
Stuart Farrar pointed out that the club’s search policy was clearly
displayed on the back of the tickets – these being the things they give you at the
turnstile after you’ve paid to get in – and on a sign just inside near the
turnstile. Hmm, can’t help but think they’ve got it all in the wrong order. How
about warning, search, turnstile? Makes sense, no? And ironically, if only one steward had
explained the policy that I was only hearing now, half an hour into the game and outside
the ground, instead of throwing me out, we'd have been fine.
I would like the check the warning on the back of my ticket, but
unfortunately I don’t have it anymore. Having admitted defeat on getting in, we did
at least press for a refund. They didn’t want to. It doesn’t matter if all
you’ve seen is five seconds of steps up to the away end. It isn’t much of a
night out, but if you’ve paid your money and been in, you don’t get it back. In
the end, we wore him down. I suppose he was missing the match too. He offered to exchange
our stubs for £13. Quite how this squared with his earlier suggestion that we write with
our complaint and enclose our tickets, I don’t know. Put in a pedantic frame of mind
and with time to kill, we insisted on receipts for the tickets we’d surrendered. I
think he’d have done anything to get rid of us. He walked us down to the main
entrance, disappeared through a door, and a different man - I think his name was Jas Padda
- emerged a couple of minutes later with hand-written receipts.
And that was the end of our night out in Fulham. We went our separate
ways. My ejected friend set off south towards Putney Bridge, while I resolved to go north
to Hammersmith. Ostensibly I was on my way home, but I didn’t fancy it yet, and
thought I may at least look at a couple of pubs that we might think about for the QPR
game. I started walking away. But I walked past a turnstile, open and inviting, then
turned back, had a quick look round and thought, sod it, I’ll try to get in. The
police had lost interest when we’d gone off with Stuart Farrar. It was our insistence
on receipts that did it. So I thought I’d risk it. If they saw me now, I’d
probably be arrested, but I didn’t feel I could be so close to the game and not have
a proper try. I did have one dodgy moment when it turned out my turnstile was closing and
they directed me to one that wasn’t, and as I acknowledged this a bit of northern
accent slipped through, and the bloke behind me asked if I wasn’t in the wrong end,
but I ignored him and I was in. I paid the £13 I’d just got back, and as I pushed
through with a mumbled thanks I was called back by the turnstile operator. 'Hang on a
minute'. He wanted to give me my ticket. Thus I entered the ground and criminalised
myself.
Needless to say, there was no one searching me on this end.
In my determination to push through the inviting turnstile before I got
cold feet, I hadn’t been sure which bit I’d paid to get into. As it happened, I
was on the terrace behind the other goal, directly opposite the end I’d got so close
to getting onto earlier. I confess my heart was beating quite rapidly at this point. This
is not normal behaviour and I really didn’t want to end my night in a cell. I looked
around and couldn’t see any police, and of course the charmless stewards were at the
other end, but I couldn’t rule out FF130 being somewhere down the side and spotting
me. I found an unobtrusive group of unremarkable people and stood behind them, and
concentrated on concealing as much of my face with my hand as possible by pretending I was
deep in thought. All I was thinking was, am I going to get away with this? This gradually
gave way to, are the team going to get away with this, as I’d heard no other roars
while outside so knew we were still 1-0 up.
I saw about the last ten minutes of the first half, which wasn’t bad,
although it took me a while to work out what the team was, and that we were playing Cooke
up front and most of the rest in defence. They weren't bad tactics, as we went in still in
the lead.
At half time I stayed rooted to the spot. I couldn’t go to get food
or use the gents down by the exit, as I might have been seen. I didn’t feel in any
danger from the crowd. I was immensely grateful that my customary desire to get served in
pubs meant I wasn’t wearing any Burnley colours. I did spend a while with my jacked
pulled over to conceal my Burnley badge, before I realised it wasn’t there and must
have come off in the tussle. It also took some skill to turn my phone off without making
it obvious. I was grateful for the clock, too. It’s pretty obvious when I speak that
I’m no Londoner, and I didn’t want to be asked the time. Of course Fulham fans
aren’t particularly passionate or aggressive, so I was fortunate there, and it was
clear there was a fair number of neutrals on that end, simply here in the hope of seeing a
good game. Perhaps they’d been swayed by the club's pre-match appeal in the Evening
Standard for people to turn up and support a top of the table team. And although there was
the usual strong representation of utterly blinkered supporters – although you
don’t notice them so much when you’re on the same side – giving us their
views (Branch was a ‘carthorse’, Ball a ‘wanker’ and the whole team a
bunch of ‘dirty northern bastards’) it wasn’t as bad as it could have been.
Indeed, by a stroke of luck I’d stood next to Mr Reasonable, who can be an annoying
fellow when he supports your side but was welcome in the circumstances. Thus Burnley
'deserved to get something from this game' on the strength of the first half, when Cook
went off it was ‘a shame, I thought he was having a good game’ and ‘that
number 7’s a good player’. In fact, this wasn’t such an uncommon utterance.
This is only the third away game I’ve seen from a home end, and it’s not to my
taste, but I know people who do it often, and I can sort of see what they get out of it.
You get a different perspective on the game, get to hear what people are saying about your
team, and yes, get to listen to lots of people saying, ‘that number 7’s a good
‘un’, which appears to be a routine occurrence.
You also get to see our support in action. From my perspective opposite
the away end, I could see the away following, and I was impressed. The end was about two
thirds full, and for a Tuesday night in London in the middle of a shortage of fuel, this
was an excellent turnout. Of course, in thinking this, I felt a sharp pang of regret.
I’d rather be part of the following than an observer of it. There are few chances to
stand on a terrace this season, and I enjoy the freedom to move around and chat to people
I know, particularly as there are always so many familiar faces at London matches. And of
course, watching games by yourself is crap. I couldn't help comparing it to Saturday at
Crystal Palace. There, I'd sat on the away end next to Burnley legend Ralph Coates. Here I
was, alone amongst the opposition. Still, count my blessings, eh? I was in.
History records that we didn’t hold out. I was wondering what would
happen if we scored, but it wasn’t a problem I seriously had to address, and as the
half progressed it became something I worried about less. Fulham were awesome. By the end
of the match, when the contest was over, I was almost enjoying some of their stuff. Their
passing, both long and short, was fast and precise, and they were startlingly quick in
front of goal. Of course they have had money to spend, but on this evidence it has been
spent wisely. They might be the technically best side I’ve seen us play in a league
match. If they don’t go up this season, I’ll be amazed.
Consequently my main problem became what to do if they scored. I’m
mildly ashamed to say I applauded. Everyone around me was doing so and I didn’t want
to stand out. Their first goal was a free kick that I thought Crichton did not adequately
prepare himself for, while their second was an incisive pass and finish that we could do
little about. Ternent abandoned the 5-4-1 which had so nearly got us something and became
more attacking. They pounded us, but Ian Cox was superb in holding the defence together,
even after the competent Armstrong went off, and Weller scurried efficiently. Up front,
Little was an ever willing outlet and provider of hope. While he was picking up long balls
and taking them on, we always had hope. That was until their third. It came just after
Briscoe had been sent off, unluckily in my view. His mistimed tackle was right in front of
me, and it was just that: not malicious, not cynical, but just mistimed. Of course, I
didn’t know he’d been booked in the first half while I was outside the ground,
but the referee was going to have to send someone off. He was one of those refs who see
the need to prove his toughness. As I was through the looking glass, I quietly enjoyed the
reaction of the Fulham fans around me, who were of course convinced that the referee was
against them. I’m told he gave some decisions our way in the first half, but in the
second he was pure Fulham. Maybe he just liked one end of the ground. Apparently he missed
a dead cert penalty at the start of the second half, which might have made it 2-0, but as
it was right in front of the away end I couldn’t see it. I know that he gave them
free kicks for 50-50 balls and tackles, and when he decided to book Andy Cooke he showed
him the red card by mistake, which sparked premature cheer on the home terrace but
didn’t exactly inspire confidence with me.
He got Briscoe in the end. As Stan said the next day, if a striker makes a
mistake, it means he doesn’t score. If a defender makes a mistake, he gets sent off.
Only now did our concentration slip, and even while Briscoe was walking
around the side of the field, consoled by Ronnie Jepson, Fulham scored their clincher from
the free kick. I didn’t want to applaud, but I looked at the away end and they were
all clapping too; Briscoe was just going down the tunnel at the corner of that end. So I
joined in. While all around were applauding the goal, I was applauding for Briscoe. I
discovered you can do quite a lot of this when you’re undercover. Often both sets of
fans applaud different things at the same time. Their near goal is your great save, and so
on.
Now I was worried we might crumble, and they might get a fourth, and then
I would feel duty bound to invoke the Three Goal Rule, which wasn’t what a fighting
performance deserved, but more to the point, would make me a bit obvious as I left the
ground on my own. It was fine. We didn’t crumble. We kept our heads and that,
combined with Fulham’s desire to start spraying the ball about like big exhibition
show-offs, kept the score the same. There was even a nice moment when, in the face of some
taunting, Kevin Ball made a splendid ‘kiss my arse’ gesture towards the home
terrace. It annoyed them, amused me, and it was the best thing he did all night.
I felt as happy as I think I ever could in defeat. There can be no shame
in losing to a side as good as this We had a plan, which nearly worked, but in the end
they were just better than us. I feel we acquitted ourselves with credit, and when you
think about our respective recent histories, the fact that we held them close and led for
much of the game is brilliant. And, there on the home end, it felt like a triumph to me.
The result was almost incidental. As the second half went on, I experienced a rising surge
of victory. Despite their attempts to the contrary, I was seeing the game. They’d
tried to stop me watching my team in my city, and they’d failed.
I left when the masses did, even able to join their applause, but in
thanks for the efforts of my team, not theirs. Thinking there might be police there who
might recognise me, I planted myself in the middle of the leaving crowd, and made some
primitive attempts at disguise, smoothing down my hair and taking off my glasses. At least
if they saw me now I wouldn’t see them. I needn’t have worried. The area was
entirely unpoliced. I expect they were all at the away end. I bumped into some of the
others and stormed up to Hammersmith, later than I had at one time thought, to sink some
fast beers, ruminate on the strange events of the night and celebrate Blackburn's home
defeat to Watford.
Here’s one final thing, though. As the night neared its end I noticed
my right ankle was beginning to hurt more and more. By the time I got off the tube at home
it was killing me, and I could only limp on it. Half way down the walk home, it just went.
One minute I was making slow progress on the pavement, the next I was sprawling, literally
in the middle of the road. It had given out. A car missed me not by much, stopped, and the
driver got out, concerned, and asked me if I was all right. Only then did I notice he was
a policeman, and the car that had stopped was a police car. You see, by then I had stopped
being a football fan, and had reverted to being an ordinary member of the public.
I’d been pushed around a bit when I was thrown out of the ground, and
that was the only thing I could think might have caused it. Two days on and I’m
bandaged, in pain, limping. Do you think I could sue? But imagine. I was a football fan,
I’d had a drink, I’d resisted being expelled. Who do you think would win that
particular argument?
A night
out of Fulham