For all the fans that ever there was
Are gathered here today because
Today’s the day that we play Man City.
On the words “Man City” the boys all screamed and spat and skulled their beers. Then someone noticed my shirt and pounded me on the back.
“Ay oop lad! Getcha beers in!” shouted some fellow in my ear. For chrissakes, it was 11.00 in the morning and I had been wanting an orange juice, but bugger it. I ordered a large can of Carlsberg and managed to back out of the heart of the scrum.
“‘Ow ya doin’ lad?” enquired an enthusiastic young fellow in a Cantona shirt and covered with tatts.
“Not bad, mate. Bloody tired,” I responded and took a deep slurp of the Carlsberg.
He looked me up and down, considering.
“Australian?”
“How can you tell?”
He nudged his mate and said, “Oy, Matty!”
Matty turned round and did a double take.
“Fook me! I thought you was—”
“Yeah me too,” interrupted his mate. “but ‘e’s Australian. This fooker’s coom even further than oos fer ‘ome match!”
I didn’t always understand what they were talking about. But fuckin’ paradise.
* * *
Ray and Matty were two mates from Manchester working in London - probably early 30s. They didn’t get to that many Old Trafford games, but there was no way they’d miss a derby at home.
“So you’re playin’ Man City today?”
“Aye! Where the fook you been?”
“But, didn’t I see you blokes running along the platform earlier? Why are you getting chased by Chelsea when you’re not even playin’ ‘em?”
“You got a fookin’ lot to learn, mate,” advised Matty.
Ray laughed. “Aye. It’s no fookin’ game supportin’ United. You cop it at both ends: home and away.”
Matty said, “I work with one o’ them blokes. I’m ‘is fookin’ su-pervisor! But that won’t stop ‘im kickin’ ma fookin’ teeth in before a game.”
“Probably joost encourage ‘im,” laughed Ray.
Matty saw the back of my shirt and said, “Judd? Oo the fook’s Jood?”
I probably should have been just a tad more circumspect, but the jet lag and the beer combined to inflate my confidence.
“Just remember where you were, when you first heard the name Eric Judd,” I told them.
Ray and Matty exchanged glances, and I realised I was about to make a dick of myself. But the jet lag - the beer - I was powerless to prevent it.
“Is that you?” asked Ray.
“I’m goin’ to Old Trafford for a trial,” I told them. “I’m your new keeper.”
“Hedge keeper?” asked Matty.
“Goal keeper, smartarse.”
Ray and Matty roared with laughter.
“I think we’ve got a game in the Coop,” said Ray, “against the Sun-nydale Nursing Home. They moost ‘ve bought you for that.”
Fuckin’ paradise.
* * *
With most clubs, the running of the gauntlet between the train station and the stadium is done by the away supporters, but Manchester United was different. The vast majority of the locals, with the exception of those few Salfordians who lived in the shadows of Old Trafford, followed City. United fans were numerous but far flung, and they had to get past the thick, blue line to enter.
Police on horseback hemmed us in as we jogged down the rat maze towards the ground while hundreds of chanting City fans pelted us with eggs and tomatoes and sharpened coins. It reminded me of a medieval infantry charge as we trotted along, heads down, dreading danger from above. The bloke in front of me was caught fair in the face by a soft tomato and he whirled about screaming in rage as his face dripped red. Then a rotten egg exploded on his shoulder and we all scattered - desperate to escape the stench while the City fans erupted with laughter and song.
And there it was. The Theatre of Dreams, six storeys high and dwarf-ing its surroundings like Ayers Rock over spinifex scrub. I’d managed to keep myself comparatively clean getting through the gauntlet and once we’d reached the stadium it was the City fans being hemmed and corralled, so I was free to explore.
It was half an hour before kick off and, in retrospect, I might have waited until the following business day. But after twenty four years and Jimmy’s passing, The Letter was suddenly burning a hole in my pocket. It was time to introduce myself to Sir Ally.
Surprisingly, it was fairly easy getting through the main entrance. I mean, I had been invited, but I hadn’t phoned ahead to let them know I was on my way. But the ease of entry was soon explained. It was a shop - the MU Megastore, no less.
I made my way to one of the counters and addressed a chubby, young girl with henna-red hair and a name badge informing me that she answered to May.
“Hello, May.”
“‘Ullo. What can I doo for ya?”
“Look, I know this is a bit sudden. But I need to see the manager.”
“No problem, sir. I can call the manager right away.”
She picked up a phone, pushed a couple of buttons, and smiled at me as she waited for an answer.
“‘Ullo, Charlie? There’s a coostomer wants to see you. Checkout four. Thanks.”
She replaced the phone but, sensing a misunderstanding, I said, “Look, erm, who’s Charlie?”
“Store manager,” said May, as though that should have been perfectly obvious.
“Right. I didn’t mean the store manager. I meant the real manager: Ally Berg … Sir Ally Bergsen.”
May just stared at me. Then a young man with dark hair and very bad acne appeared.
“What’s the problem?” he enquired.
“I need to see Sir Ally,” I informed him. “Or if not him, then John Argyle or anyone else connected with team management.”
The young manager looked confused.
“Sir Ally? On match day?”
Just
