While I’m on the topic of legs… your knees should not be the widest part of your legs. You’re supposed to have thigh muscles AND calf muscles. Seriously people, I will buy you a sandwich, it just looks fucking disgusting.

So it looks like i have another Old Trafford trip coming up. I’ve had to answer this question a few times recently, and have answered it so many times over the course of my being that it has kind of mutated and i have left certain parts out and embellished on others. So i’ll try to jot it down once and for all…then i’ll get cards printed out with the URL and just hand it over rather than explaining it each time.

Why do i support Manchester United?

It all began a long time ago in a small suburb of Sydney Australia called Peakhurst…or was it Riverwood? One of the two. That general area. I used to hang around with this bloke from school…playing Basketball, cricket etc. I reckon this must have been around ’93 or ’94 cause i remember him playing Snoop Doggy Dogg’s Doggystyle album over and over again. 93 is more likely as I had a bulldog clip around my school notes from that year with Paul Ince crudely written in liquid paper (tipex) and he was sold at the end of the 94 season.

Anyway, my mate had just gotten back from the UK playing cricket for i guess the Australian schoolboys or something – Bryce Young was his name if you are anal enough to check the authenticity of this tale. So we went up to his room one day, to trade basketball cards or whatever we were doing back then and he had his walls completely covered with posters and pictures cut out of magazines of Manchester united players. Who the fuck is Manchester United? A soccer team? Nah fuck that. That’s what the Italian and Lebanese kids at school play. Why the fuck would i want to watch that shit? So he tried to explain it to me in terms i would understand. It’s like watching the origin team week in-week out. State of Origin is what Australian’s and probably many other Rugby League fans would consider the highest level of the game..especially since England are now utter shite at it. Not completely sold yet he delivered the killer blow…it’s like watching an all-star team week in, week out. I was hooked. The NBA was at once everything foreign and familiar to me. It was what we aspired to and knew we could never get to. It brought together all these players from different teams from different parts of a country i hardly knew…places i could not point out on a map, but could name their starting 5 including their heights and colleges, and more often than not their dangerous bench players. So how could i imagine this on a much grander scale…the best players in their positions from countries all over the world playing together every week…a team that in all fantasy, and probably reality would annihilate any team an entire country could put together… Fuck choosing teams! There was only one! Manchester United was football to me. Can you remember the names of the teams ‘playing’ against the Harlem Globetrotters? It was as clear cut as that. It was Manchester United, then a gulf, a chasm, to any other team. Why would i want to know their names?

And so it began. Saturday nights in the rumpus room watching videos of United games he had brought back with him, eagerly waiting for our one football wrap up show on SBS or ABC…one of the government channels anyway. There it was…match of the day or some spin off program. 10 or 15 minutes of goals and wrap-up of the action, followed by an extended highlights package of the game of the week for roughly 45 minutes or so. And guess who the game of the week was? 9 times out of 10 it was Manchester United. In fact i can only remember watching united games…maybe the odd Liverpool or Newcastle match.

I remember the players… Steve Bruce before he ate everything in site.. all the kids Nicky Butt, Giggs, Keano, and later the explosion of the Nevilles, Beckham, Scholes…Cantona, Kanchelskis, Denis Irwin, Incey, Gary Pallister, Lee Sharpe, Hughesy and the goliath Schmeichel in goals. I think we brought in Andy Cole in the first year i was watching.

The following morning, the trampoline would be turned on it’s side to become a makeshift goal as we’d try to emulate whatever highlight we had seen the night before. This was completely unheard of in the land downunder. It was foreign enough to be trying to emulate some NBA moves…in fact if you weren’t pretending to be an Aussie Cricketer, or rugby league player you were a right poof. Unfortunately i found out at an early age that i was painfully rubbish at the game – a fact which has still yet to change – and so i concentrated on watching the sport and rather playing basketball or cricket. The seeds were sewn though.

By the time we got pay tv years later and i realised there were other teams in the league it was too late. I was a one team man.

Of course it wasn’t all clear sailing. I still couldn’t quite grasp why the commentators would make such a big deal about ‘local derbies’ in games between Chelsea and Arsenal or United and Liverpool…weren’t they all London teams? Sure it was the English premier League…but the Australian Football League (AFL) was just played by a bunch of short-short wearing girls in Victoria and some Victorian rejects over in Western Australia…it wasn’t really national. Christ 18 of the Rugby League teams were from Sydney and we didn’t bang on about local derbies…

It’s since become clearer…

I don’t remember the qualifying campaign for the 94 world cup, so i might not have been totally in love with the game by that stage, just the United way. I had to read about it later that after topping our group, Australia then had to play home and away legs against Canada – which we won – followed by home and away legs against Maradonna’s Argentina just to fricking qualify. We lost 2-1 on aggregate.

Not so, four years later when i was amongst half of the nation to be late to school/work thinking we were heading on our way to the World Cup in France with a 3-1 aggregate lead over Iran and only 30 mins to go, only to see us concede two late goals. Once more i would be watching the World cup purely to see United players turn out for their respective countries.

Less than a year later i would be celebrating United’s treble, without really grasping the significance of the feat. Sure i was watching a lot of United games…but they were all games still. We were not really getting the amount of coverage that would allow me to understand the nuances of league Cups, F.A. Cups, the League, the European Cup….i just loved watching united play, United playing well, United winning!

At this stage i did not have a hatred for any other clubs. I knew which clubs were capable of beating us on the day – if we played poorly – which players posed a threat. I knew which other teams and players i could watch while waiting for a United match to come on.

By the time of the next World Cup i was coming to the end of my Uni degree, and working full time in the evenings as a bar supervisor in an R.S.L club. This is where i was put on my first test, though hardly a baptism of fire. Across the road from my club was a sort of up-market shopping center with diamond stores etc, that for whatever reason used to solely hire English and Irish backpackers. Keen for a drink they would pack into my club on a Friday and Saturday night ripping open fresh pay packets to satisfy their thirsts. And so began the banter. I was United. I would single out the other United fans and we would trade stories and memories. I would match wits with Arsenal fans and pre-roman Chelsea fans. Any faux pas i would make were to be ignored…he’s only an Aussie. A moniker which would haunt me later entering the big leagues of football fandom.

Watching the 2002 finals surrounded by these English and Irish fans, i made up my mind…i was moving to the UK. To give it final impetus i decided i would have two years in the UK, preferably Ireland cause i am genetically predetermined to also hate the English, and then 2 years in Germany to get myself setup with a place where my mates could come and doss to watch the World Cup in Germany in four years time. Sorted.

Didn’t quite work out how i’d planned. I’d stopped in London on my way to a job in Ireland to visit a friend, only to find out that there was no job. I ended up getting a live-in job at a bar paying 160 pound a week, living rent-free above the pub. 70 pounds of my first pay check went to my first United Jersey…which i still wear to the pub each week, and every time i go to Old Trafford. 40 pounds for the Jersey, 10 Pounds for Giggs’ name and number, 10 pounds for the official FA badges and an extra 10 pounds for long sleeves…Giggsy only wore long sleeves back then.

I would wait till my second paycheck to buy a Woollen Duffle Coat for the cruel November winter.

Which brings on the next turning point…apparently it is not ok to support your own team.

Up until this stage i had never come across, or even heard the term ‘Anyone But united’. South London is full of them.

My first premiership match was Chelsea vs Middlesbrough at Stamford Bridge. Chelsea won 1-0 thanks to a Celestine Babayaro sprint down the left. i remember sitting the entire game on my hands so as not to cheer every time Chelsea lost the ball. I was in the home section of the Bridge. When i did let out a yelp at one point i made it abundantly clear that i was Australian and was ever so proud of having the Aussie Mark Schwarzer in goal of Middlesbrough.

It was to be almost 3 years before i finally made the pilgrimage to Old Trafford for a boring 0-0 with a Sunderland team who had not won a game all year i think. I almost died of embarrassment when our keeper lunged to cover his post on a shot that was some 8 to 10 yards wide which was met by my sister’s stunning observation…”our keeper isn’t very good is he”. We’ll talk about this after class.

Yet here i was, unable to wear my beloved Jersey to my local pub, for fear of retribution for the locals for something my team did to their team some 100 years ago or something. Admittedly i knew most of the punters around my local area from working in the pub so i didn’t cop it too much. Unfortunately that sort of clout did not help me outside of Balham.

I never really had anything against Arsenal. I liked watching Thierry Henry (obviously before “Le Hand”) and Freddie Ljungberg, and Dennis Bergkamp was capable of the sublime. I hated, hated, hated Ray Parlour and Martin Keown with a passion. Still to this day i get annoyed when i see them on TV for whatever reason. But apart from them i was quite capable of watching an Arsenal match if i was waiting for someone else to come on. I even had a cheeky bet on Freddie to score first in one F.A Cup final as he had 4 goals in 5 games or something coming into it and was still double figure odds. He scored second. Ray Parlour scored the first. Cunt.

However, when United drew Arsenal in some FA Cup tie…i can’t even remember if it was a semi or what, i decided with a mate we would watch it on neutral territory somewhere. I was working in Farringdon at the time and thought the city might be nice and neutral. Of course all the pubs were shut when we got there as the Square Mile is pretty much barren outside of office hours. With 15 minutes till kick off we jumped into a cab and said take us to a sports bar, we want to watch the game. Unbeknownst to me, ‘sports bar’ apparently means strip club. Unfortunately we didn’t find this out before the beer was poured, and had to exit quite quickly at the behest of two very large bouncers…drinks paid for but not drank.

Minutes to go now and we stumble across some standing room only pub. Fuck it. This will have to do. We watch the game in near silence. United won! Walking away from the pub to the tube my friend and i were stopped by several people wanting to know the score as it was a fairly big game. By the time we got on the tube we weren’t even talking about the footy any more, just regular shit. Neither of us were wearing colours. When we got to Baker st tube these two lads that were sitting across from us spoke to us as we were waiting to get off:

Tosser #1: Do you guys know the footy results?
Me: United won 2-1.
Tosser #2: Fucking united cunts..

At this point i was a bit unsure if he was referring to us or the team so i just turned around and waited for the doors to open, at which point it became clear it was directed at us as a bit more abuse followed….until he spat on me…

Now i didn’t feel it or anything at the time so my friend had to tell me later, but he saw it and immediately turned to them saying “Touch my mate again and i’ll fucking kill you!” – Dave had a way with words and a way to back them up. We continued up the stairs with these dickheads behind us but not really saying anything. We crossed the floor to take our stairs as they went to leave the station. At the very last minute Dave turned around to see where they were and that was enough of a trigger for these gobshites. They sprinted across the floor and attempted some sort of flying kick which missed my head as i was three steps below them.

Tosser #1: Come outside man, we’ll fuck you up! Come outside where there’s no cameras you fucking cunts!

Exactly how many people respond to this offer with “yeah alright, may as well…”

Now i know these people did not represent the Arsenal football club, they may not have even been fans, but it is not going to stop me associating Arsenal FC with dickhead cunts looking for a fight. I could probably break this association with some therapy but why bother…united fans are supposed to hate Arsenal.

Likewise i’ve never really hated Liverpool. I have always had mates who supported Liverpool, so have always seen them play. I don’t like them, i don’t dislike them. I am just ambivalent. I don’t want to lose to them that’s for sure. Perhaps if i had to put up with them gloating all the time i might change my mind but lets be honest…it’s been a while since they won something and might be a while till they win something again if the Rafa-lution continues….

I’ve never hated City either..mainly cause i think of them as a bit of a joke. I liken City fans to people who like unsigned bands just because they are unsigned…’this is real music man’, ‘this isn’t about the money’. Sound familiar? Where are you hyping on about your lack of money now? Manchester is Red! Stephen Ireland is a red! You can have Tevez. Jokes on you.

I hate Chelski, mainly because they seem to be our biggest threat. I hated them for the money thing and trying to buy the league and i do think they destroyed part of the game by paying over the odds for everyone, but i know they can never buy one thing and it’s team spirit. Have a look at them after they have scored a goal…it looks about as awkward as some parents sobering up on the dance floor of a wedding…there is no camaraderie, no feeling in it. Just a bunch of investments thanking each other. Chelski will never have class.

So hopefully that explains it beyond the point where i have to listen to another retard talk about, oh but you’re not from Manchester…what a surprise? You’re just fucking stupid. It doesn’t matter how long you have supported a team, or how many games you’ve been to, or how many tattoos you have or any sort of shit measure. If you feel passionately about a team then fucking support them and be proud of it.

If you cut me do i not bleed? Of course i do. I bleed red. Manchester United red. Try telling me when i feel sick after a loss that i’m not a real fan and see how far you get with me…

Saturday

A decent nights rest and very little to drink the previous night meant we were feeling fine. We set off to enjoy Prague during the daytime. not phased by the seemingly ineffectiveness of the ‘Slavic plan’ it was decided that if we were to run into any nefarious creatures on the trams or in the streets silk would address me in Serbian – though sadly not on the Serbian finger phone – and i would respond with ‘Da’. What could possibly go wrong? I actually do know some Czech. My old boss taught me some. It goes something like this (ignore spelling):

Me: Ahoj (hey there)

Czech Person: Ahoj (hey there yourself!)

Me: Jak se mas? (how’s tricks?)

Czech Person: <insert random Czech sentence here>

Me irrespective of what the Czech person has just said: Velmi Zaji Mavi (Very Interesting)

Colt 45…

I try to pick up useless bits of other languages when i meet people. My Swedish friend Jon taught me a very handy sentence in….Swedish coincidentally…and made me use it at the Nordic bar to some chick with an enormous Welsh rugb playing boyfriend:

Jon: Say it!

Swedish Chick: Go on tell me.

Me with a wary eye on aforementioned Welsh Goliath: Du oer soert (i think you’re cute…to the chick not the goliath!)

Swedish Chick: awww

Me preparing to duck: Skavi hongla? (Can we snog?)

Swedish chick: *giggles*

Welsh Goliath who apparently doesn’t speak a lot of Swedish: What did he say?

Swedish chick: He thinks i’m cute…

Pretty sure i was in there. Goliath was just cramping my style.

I used to have a cheat sheet in Spanish written by my New Zealand mate’s Portuguese wife in preparation for my trip to Andorra for those non-French speakers… still with me? It’s like a story by Tolkien…How many fucking characters did that book really need? Anyway at that stage i just assumed Portuguese and Spanish were the same thing just with a different accent. So when i finally got around to using them it went something like this:

Me: Tu tienes ojos mui belos (it is important to note here that i lost said cheat sheet some time ago and these are words that i remembered but could quite possible be a combination of all three sentences. They were something like ‘You have nice eyes’, ‘you have nice hair’, ‘would you like to throw shapes on the dancefloor’).

Spanish girl laughing: You speak old…like the bible.

I dated a French Canadian girl for a little while and when she went back to Canada she wanted me to call her, but her Mum generally answered the phone and didn’t speak any English so i had to ask in French Canadian…it’s not French no matter how much they claim it is. Cypress Hill don’t speak Spanish, they speak Mexican.

Me: Puige parlais a Manon sil vous plait? (Not as bad as Brad Pitts Inglorious Italian but pretty fucking close to it)

French Canadian mum: <insert some 15 minute rant in unintelligible French words that i don’t know, but i assume mean she’s not there>

Me: *click*

Guess i probably should have had a backup plan ready for if she was not available. I don’t know why she went back to her ex either…

So we were walking around Prague weren’t we…anyway it turns out that Jaywalking is a crime there. I know it probably is a crime everywhere but they seem to enforce it there. Seriously this copper stopped these tourists and asked for their passports saying the light was red. We fled the scene. Tourists got to stick together right? Da!

Silk stops to check out the TGIF’s they have there. For 4 years living in London i have avoided TGIF’s and mocked people for travelling to the other side of the world (i’m looking in your direction Americans) to eat the same thing as at home so i was not looking forward to breaking with my traditions here.

We head across the bridge – you know, ‘the’ bridge – to look for Silk’s cousin. Hey if you want real place names go read a travel blog. This is a place for ranting free of all bridles of spelling and facts. I used to give tours to friends visiting me in London starting in Greenwich and taking in the old pirate docks:

Friend pointing to Tower bridge: What’s that?

Me: A bridge over the Thames. Come on the next pub is just over there….

We meet Boban, Silk’s cousin who sells watercolours on ‘the’ bridge. I really liked one of them but was a bit out of my price range. I believe my excuse was that i was worried about taking it home on the plane….we’re driving…smooth…

Next stop was some more Mexican at a place called Azteca. Apparently it’s another chain but as i hadn’t heard of it i felt at ease that it wasn’t in the same vain as TGIF’s. Was a little disappointed when Silk said Mexicans would never go there. :( It was really, really nice though, easily the best Mexican i have eaten. It is number 1 out of 4. The order goes something like this:

1. Azteca, Prague
2. El Pacifico, Frankfurt
3. Mexican who’s name i can’t remember in Dresden, Dresden
4. Mexican who’s name i can’t remember in Maastricht, Maastricht

The Maastricht one takes number 4 by default as i can’t really remember it…at all…and can only remember Squires being disappointed with it so i will have to trust his judgement on this one. It was about the same time that i told Silk i only eat to avoid getting headaches and don’t really enjoy food. He is yet to forgive me.

Following the Mexican and a few beers, we split up to go our separate ways for a few hours. I’m trying to find an Irish pub that will show the United match and Silk was determined to give his winnings back to the Casino cause he felt a bit bad for them.

I go to the first pub offering me a free beer to go in. A classy establishment. Rocky O’Paddy O’Shannaheys or something to that effect…you know, traditional type place. I get there for the end of the Chelski match if i’m not mistaken, which i may well be as the beers were flowing down quite smoothly. I remember they had a live webcam in the bar and texting Squires to look for me on the webcam. I’ve had this before in Amsterdam in my one and only visit, while having a lemonade downstairs at a cafe and boychild asking me if i was the one in the wheelchair. (This post is making me seem really international isn’t it…) To clarify it for Squires i had to let him know that I wasn’t the fat bald bloke in the Giggs jersey…for once.

I remember United got up and the Waitresses were hot.

Silk texts to let me know he’s running late so i will stay put. I’ve already had 5 beers and have moved on to ciders. Would be 8 by the time Silk showed up…i want to go to sleep…oh right…Mudhoney.

Some Random Irish guy starts chatting to me on the way back from having a jimmy in the jacks. I have a bit of banter with him. After my next return he leans in and says “i’ve just given these English lads a bit off stick about their crap football side. You might have to have me back here in a minute…”

You fucking what? I AM NOT IRISH! Falls on deaf ears with him as he beckons me to start singing about the green fields of wherever the fuck he was from. I try changing the subject and ask him what he was doing in Prague. He said something. I may have said Velmi Zaji Mavi. I said i was here for the Mudhoney show and did he know them?

Irish twat: Yeah man, Every Good Boy Deserved Fudge! *Cue air guitar playing*

I’m sure the air-guitar playing fraternity are exactly who Mudhoney are targeting with their power ballads…

It does occur to me though that the saying (moniker?) Every Good Boy Deserves Fudge – on this occasion a Mudhoney album though generally a way to remember the notes on the treble clef E G B D F is different back in Australia, well at least in my music class it was. We were taught Every Good Boy Deserves Fruit. America – Fudge. Australia – Fruit. You do the math…

A quick stop at Masturbation and it was time for Mudhoney. Masturbation is KFC kiddies. You always go back to it, it’s always the same, and when you are finished you swear you’ll never do it again.

So 8 beers under my belt and i’m feeling dandy. We meet up with Boban again and head straight to the gig. I was facing a T-shirt dilemma however. I would ordinarily buy a t-shirt, but i have already been quite vocal about people wearing the shirts of the band who’s gig they are at (Greenday fans i’m looking in your direction)…and i definitely didn’t want to walk backstage wearing one of their shirts. A quick change and now it was hidden beneath my other two shirts….I’m so grunge.

We were a little late getting to the gig, so we missed the support band but just in time to grab beers before Mudhoney took the stage. No backstage before this gig. Made a few film clips from where we were, and it goes without saying they were great again. Bit different crowd – well at least from where we were standing – but the band had so much energy considering they drove straight to the gig from Warsaw. The stage divers appeared to be a bit more knowledgeable at least.

I go to make some comment to Silk during the set and was shot down. I had forgotten the rule. The most valued of all rules as well so i was chastising myself for the next song or two. There should be no talking during songs, unless it is super super important. This rule hasn’t made it to Australia yet but needs to. Australians are perennial threats in concerts. Normally i am an avid supporter of this rule, mainly cause i am deaf and can’t hear anything anyway. Flip is a habitual song-interrupter. The Australian influence might have spread to the Philippines. I’m used to it now so i end up nodding and smiling a lot. Backfired once at a Modest Mouse show. Flip leans in to say something. I give him the ear but can’t hear anything as per usual. I make out something like “blah blah blah Johnny Marr”. I look back up to the stage and say yeah he does kind of look like Johnny Marr. About another 4 or 5 occasions during the gig flip shakes my arm and i hear variations of “blah blah blah Johnny Marr dude!” at varying levels of excitement. After the show we go outside to smoke and finish beers and whatnot and the band makes an appearance at the window. Flip starts screaming like a banshee “Johhny Marr! Johnny Marr!” I’m like fuck Phil, yeah he kind of looks like him but i don’t think he’s going to get the joke….turns out Johnny Marr plays with Modest Mouse now…

We move a little closer during the encore to take some more movies and Guy spots us during one of the songs and nods. Recognition from the band! As soon as the set is finished Dan is at the side door beckoning us backstage. Did i mention i love these guys?

This time there is hardly any record company folk backstage, just us and the band. Whilst the 10 or so beers by now has given me confidence i’m still unsure how to approach the subject of a photo with them. Cue Boban. Bless his little cotton socks.

Boban: You are big rock band from Seattle yes? We take photo.

And promptly throws himself into the mix. Well if Boban can i’m not missing out.

Now the ice is broken there is more chit chat. i introduce myself to Mark and Steve finally, Silk still hasn’t redeemed himself as an introducer…if only his awesomeness could spread to other areas… Mark and Steve think my accent is Scottish, Guy thinks it’s Irish. I’m still coming to terms with Mudhoney having a discussion about me.

Boban is deep in conversation with Mark and Steve so i join silk and Dan over by the couch. We have a good laugh about the Serbian finger phone. Dan is awesome, a really top bloke. Apparently i can’t hang out with Silk if i ever go to Seattle – something to do with the awesomeness level i think – so i’m going to annoy his sister and her husband, but i really hope to run into these guys again one day, especially Dan and Guy, they are just champions! Dan played in Nirvana for fuck’s sake and you’d think he’s more interested to hear a couple of drunk guys explaining talking Serbian into their hands to a Czech cab driver…

We can tell they’re tired but when we asked Dan if he was enjoying it his answer sums it up:

“Look at me man, I’ve just finished playing music i love, i’m backstage having a beer in Prague, of course i’m having fun!”

Substitute “playing” for “watching” and you could have taken the words right out of my mouth. Meat Loaf pun unavoidable.

Unfortunately we inevitably have to leave the guys so we part ways. Full of courage now i’m shaking hands with them all. I don’t know if we were on handshaking terms but we are now. Boban takes us to a local bar where his Serbian mates have congregated. Like Silk put it, it certainly brought a different and great element to the weekend. Completed it in a way. We had done the mega touristy stuff, stuff people wish they could do, and now stuff that hardly any tourists do and locals take for granted. Most of the chat is in Serbian so i just listen and nod and smile…bit like being at a gig really. One guy in the group is Czech and says he can only speak Czech and German. We try to shoot the shit in German but i am really unsure who knew less German between the two of us. It was a dismal effort.

We head in to town when the bar shut. Nothing happened outside the bar did it Silk? Apparently some Japanese company has paid to close of the main square – you know, ‘the’ square…the one with ‘the’ clock – and have giant smoke machines filling the air with…smoke. Looked really eerie. Have a few great photos but now i wish i took more. One last beer and then it was off to bed. A few hours sleep, a long drive and we would be back in Frankfurt and unfortunately reality.

That ending is supposed to have been poetical but on second reading looks like the blog equivalent of finishing an essay with “and then i woke up and it was all a dream…”

It did all happen, it just felt surreal. Part 4 will be pictures and Video evidence if i ever get around to putting them on youtube. Stay tuned!

Another from the old Xanga days. It’s funny to read this actually to see that i once liked Tevez. That was before he tried to be bigger than our team. You can try to go against Fergie if you’re stupid enough Carlito, but don’t think for one second the fans will follow you down that road.

After watching my side struggle again today i remembered i haven’t told the tale of my visit to Old Trafford last weekend…the most surreal weekend i’ve had in my life.

I also must apologise to my future wife as i have probably already had the best day in my life.

So my day started off on the Friday, a half day at work to get out for an afternoon flight. Originally the game was on Saturday but the powers that be obviously decided they could make more money off us on the Sunday. So we had a few days to kill in sunny Wigan.

So out at the airport a little earlier than necessary i retire to the bar for a bit of pre-flight courage. You’d think i’d be used to flying by now.

Irish Girl at bar (loud enough so that the whole restaurant/bar stops their conversations and turns around to look): Ha! I can speak German…. Spaghetti Bolognaise….

Time to take a dip in the gene pool i think, you seem to be a little low…

Walking through security i had my headphones on and took them out to try to hear what the German Airport security chick was saying to the little child she was accosting.

Airport chick: Deutsch oder English?
Scared child’s father: ah English Definitely. (Some sort of Scandinavian…German was probably not yet amongst the 18 fucking languages that kid will know shortly)
Airport Chick: Are you a boy or a girl?

Now i know German’s are a bit direct at times but little Sven from Scandinavia probably didn’t appreciate that..

Now as i said i have flown a lot in recent years, and i’m now at the point where i’m not too nervous, except for when things happen that seem out of the ordinary. So i’m on my way back from the toilet onboard when there is this horrible thumping noise underneath our feet. Not good. Two big Manc lads behind be seem a bit perturbed also.

Mancs: Was that normal?
Steward Guy: Ahh i’ll just check with the captain – and goes back and makes a phonecall.
Steward on return: Yep everything’s ok. The captain will make an announcement shortly. So was that a tomato juice you wanted?
Mancs: ahh yep thanks.
Steward: Ice and Lemon?
Manc: Oh you’re spoling me now…
Steward: Could be your last…

…Fuck me!

So we made it to Manchester, very bumpily, and already i found myself using a lot more words than necessary when talking with people…just cause i could. My German is not what you would call conversational, rather functional.

Passing Bolton on the train i decide that is about as close as i want to go to it. I had not seen so many freaks since my jaunt through Swindon.

Jumping in a cab in Wigan, the lady at the hotel had told me it would be about £3. Of course i had left my printouts on my desk at work so was merely guessing the name of the pub – which to a cabbie is like bending over and telling him not to bother spitting…

Cabbie: So you up for the football then?
Me: ahh yep.
Cabbie: Tottenham fan are you?
Me: ahhh no.
Cabbie: Wigan fan then?
me: ahhh no.
Cabbie: ?
me (still having not got over my lessons from the past when declaring your football side in the UK): ahh United?
Cabbie: Cool so am i! Let’s just make it £7 then.

Mates rates is that? Cunt!

So i walk into the luxurious Wetherspoons lodge. Two big lads in front of me tell me to go grab a magazine off the desk when he’s not looking cause of a half price room voucher in there. Grand! Beers for you two!

Check-in guy: You up for the football then?
Me: ahh yep.
Check-in guy: Heskey is looking pretty dangerous at the moment.
Me: is he behind me? …..oooh he thinks i’m a Tottenham fan as well. Now i know my accent is pretty fucked up but i’ve never ever been confused with a North Londoner…no tip for you my good man.

So i make my way to the bar for a pint to wait for the others. Run into the two large lads and get in a round with them. Nice blokes but the sort who will interrupt their own conversation to unsubtly gawk at some passing ‘talent’. And my word, Wiagn seemed to have it’s fair share. I was later to see the most stunning girl i have ever seen in person…she knocked Kryptonite off top spot i think.

So my mate arrives and introduces me to all his mates. I am awful with introductions so play heavily on an Australian’s ability to use mate instead of real names for everybody. The drinks are flowing and i’m introduced to another person where above the background hum all i managed to here was “this is something something something father something something something”. So i figure it to be my mates dad, though i couldnt pick why he had an American accent.

Drinks continue, i mean £2.99 Magners, are you shitting me? I’m effing and blinding my way through conversations with all these people i’ve only just met…I’m Australian, it’s allowed. Turns out the aforementioned ‘father’ was actually a father..as in a priest. Christ, i’ve got to try to curtail my language in front of him. Prolly shouldn’t blaspheme whilst making a mental note either.

Random girl: I like coldplay
Me: Coldplay? Are you shitting me? To be honest i don’t think i’ve liked anything coming out of the UK in at least the last ten years. Wait, is Muse from the UK?
Random girl: My God I can’t believe you like Muse.
Me: Coldplay? Are you shitting me? I don’t think you can weigh into this bout…

So i retire to my room to watch the rest of some old movie i remember from when i was a kid starring Bette Midler, Danny DeVito and Judge Reinhold when Bette Midler gets kidnapped and Danny DeVito won’t pay the ransom. Seriously, what ever happened to Judge Reinhold? Make a mental note to write a punk song with Phil about Judge Reinhold, and ensure it goes for 1 minute and 47 seconds. What kind of a name is Judge? Are his brothers and sisters called President, Astronaut and Rockstar?

Go to sleep musing over this and trying to remember not to make jokes with religious conotations or swear in front of the priest.

Wake up and go to breakfast.

Lad: How you feeling today Matt?
me: Dry as a fucking nun’s nasty…

…shit….

So Saturday we spent the day visiting people and blessing things. Sadly never ran in to the new Kryptonite again…though currently i need about 3-6 weeks before i talk to someone so it would probably never have worked ;) The two heavy set guys tell me they have fallen in love 17 times tonight. Forgetting to eat dinner was not the best idea i’ve ever had so subsequently never remembered walking upstairs to my room, nor taking three quarters of a pint of cider with me to keep next to my bed.

This is my only photo of the night. I reckon it is a fair shout that with two and a half pints of cider in front of me i probably didn’t need the neat whiskey as well…Quadruple parking!

Sunday – Game day.

Wake up in an absolutely awful state. Miss check out time. Reception guy wishes me luck for the Tottenham match. Gone too far now, going to have to keep up this charade. Meet the others in the pub, they have started on the pints. It’s half 10. Fuck. Yesterday was a bad idea. So we hire an 8 seater van to take us all to Manchester early. At this point we still are short two tickets as the group has expanded. These two tickets are mine and my mates but i’m told not to worry. It was being taken care of. We find a pub to watch the Wigan Tottenham match. Dire. I’m glad i don’t actually have to support that team. With thirty minutes to go we head back towards the ground. We stop to buy some cans at an offlicence. 6 Lagers, 1 cider and Father was abstaining. So we head down the famed Sir Matt Busby Way and i can see the ground and it’s all sinking in…i’m back home. All of a sudden we’re whisked into a doorway and heading up some stairs – “Shut the door!”. I shut the door wondering what is going on. It is then whispered back down to me that we are in the office of the head of the Red Army – the Man United Hooligans. This fella had been banned from football for 5 years. One minute i’m drinking with a priest and the next with a skinhead rioter. What the hell is going on. So ‘business’ was taken care of, and we were soon on our way to the ground again, the troupe now down to three.

Then the call came and we had tickets. We just had to go and meet some guy. Walking past the Chelski dressing rooms to the tune of:

Viva John Terry! Viva John Terry!
Could have won the cup, but he fucked it up!
Viva John Terry!

So we’re told to wait while the lad goes and meets the guy for our tickets. He swiftly returns and gives us our tickets in an under the table fashion had we been seated at a table. “You might want to hold on to those tickets after the match…” Glancing down at the tickets to see they are in the name of one R.Ferdinand…we’re sitting in Fucking Rio Ferdninands seats!!

Rio’s seats! The lads to my right never spoke a word of English…i would take a stab at Serbian..it’s wuite possible these were the seats of our back four…

What on earth is going on today?? Could this day get any better?

Could it what!

3 fucking nil! And a demoralised Chelski squad making us look a lot better than we actually were. Evergreen Giggsy turning back the clock for a vintage display. Vidic making coffin nails look weak, and Didhefallover Drogba look somewhat pathetic. Rooney covering more ground and more positions than i have ever seen anyone do in my life. Kissing the emblem on the flag, one to remember. But the hairs on the back of the neck truly stood up, along with the other 79,000 people when Tevez came out to warm up, soluting the crowd’s reaction with his hand on his heart. The talk around was that their hasn’t been a reception like that for somoene warming up since Cantona. I hope Fergie was listening!

Are you watching Merseyside? I’m sure they can wheel a plastic tele into the psych ward where they keep Rafa.