The mist enveloped everything, it was all we could see. Strange lights passed us. Were we in the the nth dimension?
No, it was the road to Porthmadog and the mist wasn’t mist, it was horizontal rain. We made it through the rivers, we made it across the precariously shiny tarmac. The inside of the car felt like a cave. It was one of those days that makes your bones feel damp. It was just the kind of day to watch football in one of the rainiest regions in Britain.
The short journey from the clubhouse to cover wasn’t short enough so now I was literally wet as well as psychologically. The first half was easy; 2-0 up after half an hour. It could have been more as well. The referee made some inexplicable decisions but we were winning so it didn’t matter, like.
Whilst in the club shop at half time I had to share space with two blokes who seemed to be unnaturally excited that they sold programmes: “Fucking Hell, look at that!! United!!” This felt very strange indeed; their attire (Grown-Up Scally) convinced one that neither of them were “readers”
The second half was boring. We scored again and that was that. Some time later I finally noticed what the two really loud people nearby were shouting; irritating slogans that they’d learnt from Soccer AM. It was the scallies from the shop. Porth scored and the scallies roared. Two minutes later Porth scored again so they renewed their barrage. Unfortunately for us they took themselves down to the end Porth were attacking, their magnatism was sure to pull the ball in. It didn’t work and we won, hurrah!!
While we’re on the subject of fans, where were the Rhyl fans today? A little bit of rain and they don’t turn up, bloody glory hunters.