Can't Get There From Here

oily sailor

Barnet 2 Wycombe Wanderers 1

No-one wanted to have a pop at Jermaine Easter about a lack of commitment because we were the least committed people in the United Kingdom, and until we were actually inside the ground, fifteen pounds lighter, there was every chance we wouldn’t turn up.

But we did. Our head wasn’t right but nor were our legs, and our arms were weak, unable to hold onto the most feminine of tipples.

Barnet away is one of those fixtures that lures out the London set, despite the fact that grinding through London on the northern line remains as rapid as swimming butterfly through a glue river. At 5.07 the carriage was emptyish, the dotted commuters gripping onto their two free papers, one for now, ONE FOR LATER.



The Red Lion by the ground was home to an echelon of SMBU directors, all of them sweating heavily, as if they had something to hide or announce. As the pub filled up with Wycombe fans the chief barmaid became increasingly agitated. A rumour swept the pub that a “double decker” Wanderers supporters coach had arrived in the car park, which pushed her over the edge. “We don’t serve faaaackin’ double deckers, someone lock the faaaaaaackin’ doors. This ain’t right for a Tueeeeeeeeesday.” Empty threats, she put away the shining coins like a sea lion eating mackerel.

No-one gets into grounds for kickoff time in the era of Sky+. I’ll rewind the first five minutes and see what the formations are, but this is Hertfordshire and no. This is my first look at Dave Crackpipe and Roger Johnson and Chris Sutton’s Brother and Not Grant Holt, and yeah, they’re wearing blue and they’re going down the slope in the FIRST HALF, like they’ll never learn.

Sometime before the break the ball surges downhill like marble madness and Chris Sutton’s brother unrolls one of his long legs and spoons the ball into the net. Cue the usual bustle and grabbing and grainy whoops.

The second half inevitably involves Wycombe going uphill and this never spells anything but TWUBBLE. The confident lower league side of the opening 45 mins descend into cartoon horror with defenders trying to launch the ball into the 2012 Olympic Park and a growing anxiety among the crowd.

Even the Drone Army (™ me, you gasroom fuckers) start to emerge from their shells. A pleasant atmosphere of medium-level banter quickly becomes soaked in idiocy as they belt out “fuck off back to your council house”. Do they not watch Property Ladder, the pricks? Barnet capitalise on the stupidity hanging in the autumn air by freebasing a couple of goals and ending Wycombe’s Junior Calpol unbeaten run.

The final whistle sounds like a faint whistle and we turn and head for the exit gate. I don’t stay and applaud the players, I’ve only met them once.

04.10.2007. 23:36

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