Rage Against The Machine

Wycombe 0-0 Brentford
oily sailor

No-one minds queuing in certain circumstances. Queuing for food vouchers or guns or just to see what’s at the other end. That’s all fine. Queuing for 25 minutes in a queue less than 10 people long for tickets for a League Two football match, well that I can do without. There’s no need. Just go round the pitch with a bucket at half-time and I’d chuck the right amount in. I’d even chuck a few extra quid in for the privilege. As it was, I could barely digest my food in a bag.

The game was ebbing and flowing as I took my seat (the one I’d been allocated, possibly) and Wycombe were attacking the fairly decent turn out from Middlesex. They chuntered through their soppy repertoire, bursting into powerful group rage when a Wycombe fan in a Chelsea shirt kissed his badge. “We are the Chelsea haters” they bawled in a turn of phrase about as relevant as me singing “I’m going to invade Botswana”.

Anyway, Wycombe’s a Chelsea town, at least we’re honest about it. Brentford is a 24 hour service station for antique collectors in Chiswick.

Dislikeable journeyman Scott McGleish almost opened the scoring halfway though the first half but his header was parried or something and the ball didn’t go in the nets. We stood up briefly but seconds later we were sat down again. The person next to me slept dreamily on my shoulder, gawping fans took it in turn to fetch fried food and candy, a jogger ran around the field behind the Valley End.

Half-time came as usual in the form of streams of both supporters and urine, the two intertwined in the amiable football way. Hopes were high for the second half as Wycombe were “going the right way”, but the game followed the nervous defensive pattern of the opening 29 minutes.

Wanderers manager Peter Taylor, strutting proudly in club shorts and a baggy t-shirt like a Barksdale crew grinder had obviously seen enough and decided to throw new striker Matt “Matt” Harrold into the fray. The man destined for replacement was Scott McGleish. Uh-oh.

The former Colchester and Northampton striker shrieked like a pony getting a vet’s bolt when his number was held up. The man who can cover 100m in eight seconds when there’s a penalty up for grabs took an eternity to get off the park, and when you’ve paid £20 for 74 minutes of football, it’s not a good move.

His arrival on the bench saw phase two, a whirlwind of shinpads, shirts, jockstraps, boots and wristbands – all hurled at the manager in a show of petulance unbridled. Lengthy queues, CRM, warm beer and prima donnas. Is this what we want from the fourth division or are we dancing romantically with a rotting skeleton in an expensive dress?

Maybe it was just a bad day all round. And here’s where I say I’ll be back again soon enough with the slate wiped clean. And I will. I just want 90 minutes and a team shorn of whiners, moaners, chunterers and groaners.

Oh yeah, it was 0-0. Wycombe Brentford always is.

16.09.2008. 23:36

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