Monday, December 09, 2002

Andy King's a Homosexual, He ain't got no fucking testicles

Andy King's shag's his mother
Then his sister, then his brother
Then they all go shag each other
In the Swindon slums

Into the cauldron of hate entered an insane warrior with a maniacal look on his face, the tension that had hung over this fixture to exploded, spitting its venom across the stadium. Weeks of malice, weeks of fans exchanging abuse. Is this what we needed? This nutter sprinting unabated at the Swindon fans shaking his fists? A man hiding behind an allegiance to a football club, kissing the badge on his shirt, hollering his manic ramblings through his beak.

Did I say beak?

Ronny the rocking Robin is Swindon’s mascot, this big six foot three inch robin that sprints around, slides on his knees, bangs advertising hoardings and leads the Scum singing. Quite frankly, he pisses all over Ollie the Ox.

You've got to give them their victories when they deserve them, I suppose.

Three years ago I stood on the terraces at Oxford's rusting stadium, the Manor, and got chest pains as we narrowly avoided relegation. A year later we shipped 100 goals, were relegated by April and I was shrouded with a simple gloom. By the time last season came around I was just feeding the habit with an evermore dirty, diluted drug. Each time I used it I hoped for one of those old buzzes, each time I was left sullied and unfulfilled.

Ten minutes before yesterday’s kick-off the air was filled with Two Tribes by Frankie Goes To Hollywood, it was ear splitting. Then they put on some Euro pop and the stadium began to jump, the whole place began to sing, and wave, and dance. The stand shuddered under my feet, that used to happen at the Manor, but that was because it was about to fall down, but this was because there was a wall of noise enveloping the whole stadium.

A lump came to my throat.

I've watched Oxford since I was three, I've seen them at Wembley, seen them beat Arsenal, Manchester United and Chelsea but in the last four years I've watched the club die under the weight of crippling debt and piss poor karma. I've stood on the terraces seeing the sands of the club's life slip through my fingers. Then yesterday it woke up again, and I had no idea how much it meant to me.

We hadn't even kicked off.

1-0, Jefferson Louis, 65 minutes. They showed the dressing room during the draw for the 3rd round; when it came out as Arsenal at Highbury Jefferson ran around stark bollock naked live on TV. If only I'd had such foresight.


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