Weekend warmth in the sharp weather

Last Saturday was enjoyable on four accounts.  Firstly, I linked up with Ben Mahon - on his birthday - at Clapham Junction from where we proceeded to Thornton Heath for a pub to eat our fine cuisine (Tesco meal deal) and watch the second half of the FA Cup between Liverpool and Everton.  Out of deference to the pub owners (or rather just so we could sit down as we noshed), we decamped to the pub ‘garden’ on our arrival.  When we returned to the bar area, we watched the Scouse semi-final end in victory for the Reds, with ex-Newcastle United striker Andy Carroll heading the winner with just minutes left on the clock.  Thus, the Magpies were granted European qualification, for Liverpool had already achieved it by winning the League Cup and their opponents – Tottenham Hotspur or Chelsea – were also in the mix for Europe.  It is still not mathematically absolute but when you need to perform such numerical gymnastics, it is all but a nailed-on certainty.

Secondly, Sunnyhillboy came second in the Grand National, thus winning me some money in the office sweepstake.  It was a bittersweet moment at Aintree for several reasons but on my own personal account, Sunnyhillboy was leading with just a few lengths to go before losing by a nose to Neptune Collonges.  Still, £15 for the expense of one isn’t bad and almost matched the odds of J.P. McManus’ fine steed of 18-1.

We moved on to Selhurst Park to watch Crystal Palace take on Ipswich Town.  Though the Eagles are not my primary team, I do like to see them do well and got very much into the spirit of the game.  Ben’s dad Terry joined us in seats quite near the pitch.  It was standard end-of-season fare, with neither team fighting for anything more than pride, promotion and relegation treated as impostors just the same as triumph and disaster.

Ipswich had a very good first half but the two best chances fell to Palace, who took one of them to enter the break 1-0 to the good.  It was created by the right-back Clyne, who was in my eyes the man-of-the-match.  I liked to think I played my part, shouting words of encouragement (in a formulation that no-one else uttered) “Go on Clyne, you can do it, you know you can,” as well as lavishing other compliments on him.  With Zaha being marked and no other options available, Clyne went on a mazy run evading several tackles, getting the ball to Scannell who diverted it to Martin and the loanee from Norwich scored.  His full name is Chris Martin and his performance was akin as if the Coldplay frontman was in a cardinal red and blue shirt, disinterested at times and when he did make bursting runs, the grass might as well have been treacle under him, the defenders always beating him to the ball.  Only Darren Ambrose exceeded him in lethargy.

In the second period, the Eagles were better but it was Ipswich who scored next, the leveller a wonder goal that all the same was permitted by defenders backing off.  This quietened the home support till the final whistle, anxious that the game might be thrown away (except for a penalty appeal for Palace on which the referee came down against).  As is usual with a more committed away support facing a generally more discreet home crowd, the Town fans started laying in to the level of backing that the Selhurst faithful were offering.  I wasn’t having my surrogate team’s fans being abused in this way and responded with a few choice epithets, such as every time the away support bellowed ‘Ipswich’, I shouted back ‘F**kwits’.  I also upped my volume towards the on-pitch antics as further riposte, shouting ‘Come on Palace’ and other verbal adornments, while around me was somnolence.  As with Clyne, I don’t know how much my contribution (and that of some other fans in the stand I was in) made in deterring the Ipswich backing from criticising the level of home endorsement, but they held off thereafter, instead launching into ditties directed at helping their own team or attacking their derby cousins Norwich City.

Ending 1-1, I finally had seen a live goal scored by Palace at the fourth attempt (previously, I was there when Newcastle won 2-0, so I was happy at the clean sheet and then this season with nil-nils against Reading and Millwall.  Against Reading, I was more vocal in attacking the away players as well as backing the home squad.  On one moment, I shouted “You’re rubbish McAnuff!” as Jobi McAnuff was in close attendance.  Two seconds later, he was on his backside with a look that said ‘Bugger, I vindicated that guy in the crowd’).  My next objective is to see a Crystal Palace win.  In the end, the relaying of thrashings of bitter rivals, each shipping half a dozen goals, meant both sets of fans left with satisfaction beyond the draw.  I drew pleasure from sampling the atmosphere of a football game alongside someone with whom I could banter and getting in to the swings of things.

We bade farewell to Terry and went back to Ben’s apartment in Oval (via Balham Tube Station).  There was a delightful Orthodox-looking church/seminary in the Byzantine-style opposite his Regency (at a guess) block.  From his balcony, there were views of the Elephant and Castle Tower, the Shard and Canary Wharf in the far distance.  There were also two bones belonging to a small animal rested on the wall parapet, which was bemusing to Ben as he hadn’t eaten food out there recently and his girlfriend (in Bristol for another birthday, after staying over the night before) was vegetarian.  I took in the purveyance of Sky Sports whilst waiting for Ben to get ready for the night out – the latter being the fourth of the happy events of the day.

We travelled to Old Street Tube station and walked from there into the heart of Shoreditch.  The first bar that Ben had selected was all booked up by the time he came to reserving a place and we entered hoping to obtain some unallocated space for our party of eight to ten.  It wasn’t to be, though this turned out for the best, even if it didn’t look like that initially.  The bar was quite cramped anyway and needed to be entered over a ramp for the outside pavement was being dug up.  We ambled down Rivington Road, looking for an alternative outlet.  We came across the Bedroom Bar. Looking for a place to sit, we were approached by a man with a voice and appearance akin to Robert Vaughn and dressed nattily in black trilby, purple tie, white shirt and well-tailored black suit.  He asked if he was here for the Comedy Club and Ben asked him if he was performing.  He replied that he wasn’t and it came into my mind when in the first Austin Powers’ movie, a Texan punter in the casino toilets inquires if Powers is performing, to which the spoof secret agent retorts, “No, I’m British.”  This American man with Old World charm directed us over to a table (it was subsequently discovered to be reserved but we found an equally acceptable table opposite across the room) and was politeness itself.  Indeed, the whole staff of the Bedroom Bar were inclined to giving that extra sparkle to their service.  They also served food, of which Ben and I were much in need.  Fuel was the order of the day for us but the meals were exquisite, even a bowl of sausages and mash (my choice).

Ben had some rapid redirecting calls to make, as his Facebook event page had listed the previous bar as the meeting point.  Jon came long first, followed by Ed, Jamie, Marisa, Maria, Kamara and Fiona and a good time was had that I can report, before I departed at 10.30 p.m.  Anecdotal trivia all maybe but I’m not a Twitterer or a fan of the vast majority of dumb, numb cowpats that pass for tweets.  I think a weblog is far more expressive than something that is chopped down to 140 characters or less.  Brevity has its place but should I want reference to this in years to come, I’ll be able to fully recapture that flavour.  If anyone else enjoys my outpouring, so much the better.