You'll Be Sitting Next To Me

I'm just back in the city after a week spent on trains, in cars, and in the front rooms of relatives spread across the North of England. For three days over Christmas itself we stayed at Charlotte's brother's house- a converted barn on the outer edge of a once thriving but now slightly weatherworn milltown whose inhabitants spend their days clinging for dear life to the outskirts of the Greater Manchester conurbation, as if afraid a freak gust of Lancashire wind could send them - along with their crumbling Victorian civic buildings, shiny newbuild housing estates, state-of-the-art miniroundabouts and giant out-of-town discount sofa warehouses - tumbling across the open moors in the general direction of the Irish Sea, never to be seen again.

I tell you this in order to set the scene for Boxing Day lunchtime. Six of us are stood at the bottom of Charlotte's brother's stairs with our topcoats on, searching among the discarded wrappingpaper and Christmas Crackers for hats, scarves, and gloves. A mid-day walk up nearby Winter Hill is in the offing- but not for me. I have excused myself from the familial outing, as I have only one destination in mind- the away end at Reebok Stadium, where in two and a half hours time Bolton Wanderers are due to host Newcastle United in front of an expected twenty five thousand -plus bumper holiday crowd.

This might sound like a straightforward assignment, but it isn't. For a start, Reebok stadium is 4 miles away and, Public Transport being closed down for the duration of the festivities, the choice is between finding my way there on foot and attempting to locate and hail the number 12 Wanderers Special Supporters bus, which, according to a timetable which has spent Christmas week scrunched up in my coat pocket, passes once and once only on matchdays through the milltown,stopping at a number of ambiguously-identified locations. And for another thing, I haven't got a ticket for the away end, whose 6000 seats were sold out to the unfailingly loyal (read: certifiably insane) Newcastle support within days of going on sale sometime in November. All things considered, the best outcome I am expecting for the afternoon is a pair of tedious hikes along unfamiliar Lancastrian A-roads, interspersed by two hours hunched on an overpriced seat in the not-quite-sold-out home end, brow furrowed with the effort of silently egging the lads on while avoiding the temptation to leap up and yell 'Haway Now Lads' every time a killer Cabaye throughball sends Obertan scuttling menacingly away down the right wing.

So, as I step outside of the brother's house and bid farewell to the walking party, I can't say I'm particularly enthused by the prospects for the afternoon. It is at this point, however, that serendipity kicks in. The long, straight road is deserted of pedestrians, other than three lads ambling in my direction from the left. One of them has his jacket open, making visible a black-and-white striped shirt bearing the logo of the Northern Rock Building Society. Away Supporters!

I am on the trio like a flash, and, adopting an unreconstructed version of my West End of Newcastle accent which last saw regular service in the late 80s, am enquiring as to the possibility and whereabouts of 'any spare tickets for the Toon End, like?'. The lads are sorry to say they are not in a position to assist directly, but offer to take my mobile number, in case they come across someone who can. They also point me in the direction of an unpromising looking tavern, located twenty yards away at the nearest mini-roundabout. 'Have a look in there bonny lad- it's full o' toon. You might get yoursel' sorted oot'.

Sure enough the White Horse Inn- as it turns out to be called- is absolutely choc-a-block with blokes in black and white paraphernalia conversing loudly across the bar in thick accents ranging from Ashington to deepest County Durham. At least four minibus trips from the far North East have found their way to this particular outpost, and my guess would be that the drinking was well underway by Washington Services. The mood is boisterous, but there's no edge of aggression, at least for now. A stern barmaid straight out of Coronation Street central casting is keeping a weather eye on proceedings, and regulating the pace ('You've had two shorts in the last half an hour son- I think that's enough!'). Relations between the Northeasterners and the outnumbered groups of home supporters are being conducted through outbreaks of good-natured banter. As an older local returns to the table with his pint he calls back 'Enjoy the game now, lads- hope you get bloody stuffed!'

One of the blokes at the bar seems to be the leader of at least one section of the Newcastle contingent. Leaning in, I venture a hopeful request, couched in identical terms to my approach moments earlier to the trio in the street. This time, however, the response is less ambiguous:

'Tickets? You're in luck, pal! How Davey, this lad here's after a ticket. Yee still got that one?'

Turning, I spot Davey on the other side of me, semi-slumped against the bar. With some effort, he hauls himself upwards, fumbles in an inside pocket, and emerges proffering a small, printed, cardboard document, etched by a silver-dotted tear-off slip two thirds along its length, and bearing the magical inscription which has been the subject of my quest for- well, for about ten minutes: 'Bolton Wanderers Versus Newcastle United, December 26th, 3PM. Enter via the away turnstiles only. Blocks G and H. £31.00'.

The aforementioned sum of money changes hands, with only some small confusion over the correct amount of change due from two twenties and a one. Davey, it turns out, is one of a seventeen-strong minibus outing from Jarrow, South Tyneside, and has excelled himself even in this company by drinking since four-o-clock in the morning- a feat of stamina which has left him garrulous, while entirely bereft of the faculty of short-term memory, as is evidenced by the conversation he opens:

So, you'll be sitting next to me'

Sound.

What's your name then son?

John.

Right, John. Nee bother, son. You'll be sitting next to me, by the way.

(...five minutes elapse...)

So, you'll be sitting next to me'.

Sound.

What's your name then son?

I think you can guess the rest. I stay for two pints, during which me and Davey have the 'You'll be sitting next to me' conversation four times in total. Suddenly it is five past two, and as I haven't got a seat on any of the minibuses which will embark for the ground at five-to-three crammed with my fellow North Easterners, I'm going to have to get out into the streets of the milltown and take my chances with the Wanderers supporters bus.

The Gods of Football having continued to smile upon me, I find myself just forty minutes later striding through the Block G Turnstiles at Boltons' out-of-town and spaceship-shaped Reebok Stadium. There is time for one more pint- consumed rapidly in the bowels of the arena and while joining in a throaty rendition of 'Give Me an N and an E and a WubbleU C' led by a twenty-something boy in a suit of armour (fancy dress being something of an away end custom on Boxing Day) - before I join the massed ranks on the away terraces, which I do just as the Newcastle team, clad in a change strip of all black, take to the field to a rapturous reception.

A football match ensues, and frankly, it's not much of one, at least for the first half. Bolton are a poor team, toothless and relegation-haunted- and their increasingly belaboured efforts to break down Newcastle's efficiently marshalled rearguard are met by grumbles of derision from the surly home terracing. Not that the lack of entertainment on the pitch is bothering me. I'm too busy singing, and am having to concentrate on that a bit as I've not been in an away end for a few years and there are a few new ones I'm less than familiar with. Still, I give a decent account of myself, and by half-time, as I am happily joining six thousand other people in belting out 'Demba Demba Ba' to the tune of 'Baby Give It Up', and 'We're Here, we're there, we're every fucking where-in the seats, in the seats' to the tune of 'Quartermasters Door', well, I feel thoroughly as if I've never been away.

In the second half, two things happen. Firstly, Davey from Jarrow (who I may have forgotten to mention had spent the first forty five minutes slumped half asleep in the seat next to me) wakes up, stands up, and starts joining in the songs. Secondly, as if shamed into renewed effort by this display of physical stamina by a man who has spent the previous eleven hours drinking strong lager, Newcastle start to play with vigour. Suddenly Obertan is scampering free down the right, just in front of us, and his hard, low centre is met by terrace favourite number 10 Ben Arfa, who nets with relish from close in. I've only just finished pogoing and hugging complete strangers (and Davey from Jarrow, who by now is a firm friend of mine) with joy, when unaccountably Obertan is free again, this time down the left, and another low cross- this one drilled with less pace but more measured intent- is met with another fine finish- this one looped, and into the top corner, by the prolific and serially-serenaded number nine, Demba Ba.

Bolton are by now ragged, and as full-time brings an end to their suffering, only the diehards- and those who had determined to stay to the game's last knockings so they could meet the final whistle with catcalls- remain in the home seats. It's a different story in the away end, which sashays gleefully for the exits while serenading the victorious coach:

'Pardew- Give Us A Wave- Pardew Pardew Give Us A Wave'

Far away on the touchline, a small figure in a black suit and tie acquiesces to our request, and his gesture is met in the time-honoured response, by a short outburst of raised-hands clapping back on the terrace. The figure in the black suit and tie dissappears down the tunnel, signalling a definitive end to the afternoon's proceedings in the away end.

One further trip on a Wanderers supporters bus later (I managed to keep my mouth shut, although in truth the home fans looked glum rather than vengeful, and more likely to burst into tears than start throwing punches, whatever the provocation) I am back in the milltown- and back in Charlotte's brother's front room. The views from the top of Winter Hill were of the highest order, apparently. I will have to see for myself one day. In the meantime, I'll settle for the views from the back of Block G of a spaceship near Horwich, Lancashire, and for this scoreline:

Bolton Wanderers 0

Newcastle United 2 (Ben Arfa 69, Ba 71)

Crowd: 26000.

Comments

[Izzy]

What a splendidly surreal way to spend Boxing Day proving once again that you can take the boy out of Newcastle but you can't take
Newcastle out of the boy.

[Uncle Mark]

A Quixotic Quest culminates in a triumphant conclusion for our wandering Everyman. This lacks only mention of 'A Pie' to be considered high art, and the Author can expect a call from Speilberg* very soon unless I am much mistaken.

* That's Arty Speilberg. Does a very nice Steak and Kidney on Gosforth High Street.

[John S]

Me love that. Irey man.

[abby]

Eeeee I'm glad you didn't have to resort to your posh vicar accent, very convincing though it is!

[jonathan]

Abby- I was indeed silently practicing my posh vicar accent in case it was needed at the Reebok ticket office, as you know it has a 100% success rate, although admittedly it has only been called into action on the one occasion and that was one afternoon on the phone from the flange desk when I used it to illicitly obtain tickets for the home end for a cup tie at Blackburn Rovers. It turned out I was in the company of 5000 other posh Geordie vicars, but that's another story...

John S/ Irey Man thank you very much (I have been trying to work out 'Irey Man' all week to no avail, it will come to me in a flash...)

Uncle Mark- Spielberg doesn't seem to have been in touch yet although in his defence my phone was out of charge for a while yesterday... yes that will be it. I'll give him another week.

Izzy/ Me Mam- Hope I didn't scare you too much by texting from the post-match Wanderers supporters bus- I'm sure you had visions of me being lynched by glum Lancastrians who had rumbled my posh vicar 'neutral supporter' accent! I lived to tell the tale as you can see (and actually, as I know there is at least one Wanderers fan who reads this- hello Warren- I should say the home fans I came across were unfailingly friendly..)

[skipsey]

That's £31 very well spent in my opinion.