Finals Day

It’s very rare that a team that I support gets to any final. Unfortunately this year was one of those occasions.

It’s unfortunate because it probably means that I’m going to have to attend.

It’s a rarity because most of the teams I support are absolutely fucking shit. I actually prefer supporting shit teams. It’s more fun.

It would be absolutely terrible having to justify supporting a club which has been taken over by some rich state which throws people off buildings for not abiding by the laws that their schizophrenic forefathers have made up.

Saying that, West Ham got taken over by an Icelandic consortium in 2006, and the nation basically bankrupted itself not long after. That’s the power that a shit team which is never destined to achieve anything yields.

Glamorgan Cricket made it to the final of the 50 over final to be played in Nottingham on 22nd September.

In truth, we have made it to the final of this competition twice in the last 3 years. Largely because other teams are absolutely ravaged by the pointless made up tournament that is The Hundred, so other teams have to play their second or third teams.

I didn’t attend the last one because the world was still in that nostalgic state where no one left the house.

As a side note – The Hundred tournament is inevitably going to end up as a T20 tournament. The ECB spent a lot of money registering the trademark of ‘The Hundred’ worldwide. The domain name and trademark of “The Hundred and/& Twenty/20” is still available to buy. I may well buy it in the near future. Or just moan when someone else does.

Naturally I was absolutely enthralled by the prospect of this event. The last significant social escapade I attended was Bluestone. I ended up with shingles which were predominantly located on my left arse cheek. Bluestone is a weird place. It gives me a The Hills Have Eyes type vibe.

The day arrived. I did my bit. I woke up at 4am, and I had a Yerba Mate. I watched a documentary about Mohammed Al Fayed being a sexual predator and I made my way to the train station.

There were FOUR trains I could have got onto to complete my objective. They proceeded to cancel three trains on the bounce and eventually I had to get a lift into central.

I made it with five minutes to spare. Utterly enthused. Threatening to commit all sorts of atrocities.

I’m not sure what more I can do to control this situation bar walking the five miles to the train station.

Things didn’t particularly improve on the train to Nottingham. A hot mess of a train packed with some unruly characters. 

The way to break me in SAS interrogation would be to ram me in an enclosed state with human beings standing at close quarters to me. I’d prefer to be hooked up to the mains electricity.

We arrived there the day before. Of course the weather was dry. Even a bit of sun. The forecast for the next day was predictably apocalyptic.

I have given up relying on weather forecasts. Weather forecasters make economists seem enlightened and accurate. 

And yes i know it’s a fucking prediction on the best available data. I just find it incredible how consistently wrong they are.

I decided to stagger on and cling to the delusional belief that the weather forecasters were wrong again.

Oh we had a wonderful day staggering about Nottingham. It’s actually a nice city. 

A tremendous slap up meal in Burger Kind was had. I’m pretty sure I saw a time traveller there. This woman and her food appeared to evaporate into thin air. But whatever, it’s none of my business.

I suppose another positive was that I received a free Jager bomb from one of those girls who walks around with the trays in the bar. I characteristically panicked when I was asked if I wanted one, and for some reason told her I couldn’t afford one because I had just been sacked.

She probed further as to why and I spurted out gross misconduct. Admittedly it’s hard to tell when I’m being serious, but this time I expected her to realise that I’m joking, but no. She took pity on the quivering wreck and gave him a free drink. I still don’t get it. Gross misconduct is never good.

I awoke on the day of the game full of optimism. Upon drawing the blinds it looked like a biblical event was taking place. The apocalypse was here, and it was fucking pissing down.

We made our way to the ground. The Wetherspoon’s directly outside the ground was closed because all the ceilings were leaking. It must be bad for a Tim Martin establishment to be closed.

We made our way to a pub further down the road. This pub’s roof was leaking also but it was open.

The worst thing about this place was that it was swamped with fans. I’m not particularly tribal. Just because we happen to support the same team doesn’t mean I want to needlessly communicate about the vagaries of life.

The game was eventually abandoned. There was a reserve day scheduled for the next day, but we were going home and those weather aficionados actually predicted the weather to be even worse.

The rest of the day consisted of aimlessly wandering about, barely able to see. We attended the oldest pub in Nottingham apparently. What an awe inspiring escapade that was.

The train home was almost missed due to the malfunctioning mobile phone of my traveling companion.

The train once again was a heaving mess. This time my distress was aided by the systematic consumption of alcoholic beverages.

To compound the misery further, the game was actually being played as we travelled on this heaving mess of a train. The weathermen had reverted to the mean as their prediction was wildly wrong.

We actually won the trophy. If the truth be told it was pretty irritating that they managed to get a game on. 

There was a silver lining though. The train got cancelled at Birmingham New Street due to flooding. 

The apoplectic reaction of the fellow passengers was both heartening and amusing.