Bristol City Away

Ok as part of my English coursework I have to write 5000 words of creative writing over 10 pieces - poetry, plays, prose etc. To be a bit different I thought I'd write one piece in the style of Football Factory, although I'm not sure how happy the examiners will be with this.... It is also a bit on the long side so may well get cut down, but I used a few of your names in this (the forum members whose names sound vaguely nasty) - if you don't like your role in it give me a shout and I'll happily change them!

Fictional Fan’s Match Report: Bristol City vs. Swindon Town

Breezing down the M4, just 30 minutes from Ashton Gate, home of Bristol City Football Club. Sat in an ageing coach with 30-odd other, red-blooded males, the air is electric with testosterone. I focus on the background noise of excited conversation and some old Primal Scream track crackling on the PA system as Reg babbles on about depressing statistics from this desperately disappointing season. Nothing will put a downer on today. It’s the last day of the season and I’m bloody buzzing, 2 points off safety and behind our biggest rivals Bristol City. I love derby day, a chance for a friendly meeting with the neighbours. A win today and we stay up, enjoy the highs of playing relatively large teams such as Nottingham Forest, Bradford city, and as much as it loathes me to say it, Bristol City. A defeat and we face the embarrassment of being relegated to League Two and the shame of travelling to Accrington and Oxford next season.

I hate Bristol, full of plastic inbred fans. It’s in my blood. Standing on the terraces since I was a nipper singing of my hate for Bristol City, Reading and the old enemy, Oxford United. Traditionally Oxford have always been our greatest rivals, but in recent times games against Bristol City have been bad-tempered affairs so I feel more than just a professional rivalry. It feels personal, like the city has wronged me. What good has ever come out of Bristol anyway? I’ve already had a few and I’m feeling the warm liquor fill my veins and cloud my judgement readying me for the action ahead. Some of the lads at the back of the coach have started on the sniff, but I don’t need any waking up. Last night was messy for sure, 14 lagers, a dirty kebab, and then back to the missus, but the electricity in the air of derby day is more than enough to liven me up.

Nozza is grinning at me. His face is alight with anticipation; probably fuelled by the spliff he is greedily drawing on and continually offering to me. I refuse; the adrenaline in my body is screwing me up enough as it is. The coach pulls off the M4, onto the M32 towards the centre of Bristol. We can see the grey tower blocks of Bristol, looming out of the grey murk that seems to cover the city all year round, not that I visit often. I involuntarily sneer at the ugly sight, wanting to jump off the coach and thump the first twat I see clad in a cheap replica City shirt.

Finally the coach pulls up outside the pub. The Dog and Duck. It looks a right hole, but we’re assured we won’t get any trouble here so we can get the beers down us. It’s barely 12, plenty of time for a few Carlings, a quick ruck and then into the ground for five-to-three. I watch the troops leap off the coach. Mex has a mad, dangerous look in his eye, while Stoney is stumbling off the coach already looking half-cut. We gather round a few tables in the corner. The locals know who we are. Their frightened glances and uncomfortable shuffles tell us all we need to know. They should know they’re safe. It’s only other football fans we’re after. We don’t hurt anyone who is innocent; we are not mindless thugs, just bored thirty-something males looking for something to break the dull monotony of a five days a week nine-to-five job.

Henry’s recounting his previous evening, thrown in a cell for a bit of pointless criminal damage. He holds his hand up and admits to having a few too many. I vaguely recall seeing him last night, and laughing to my friends at the state he had been in. He’s daft alerting himself to the authorities like that. If he gets nicked today the judge will not hesitate in slapping a custodial sentence on his head. The lads seem in high spirits, laughing and taking the mickey out of poor Henry, while I sit back quietly sipping my pint, enjoying the calm before the storm.

I get up and walk to the toilet. Mark’s sniffing a line of coke off the hand-drier whilst Sonic’s at the sink splashing cold water on his face. “Heavy night last night?” I casually inquire as though the scene is perfectly normal.

“Nah not really, just not feeling it at the moment. No doubt once I see a couple of scummers I’ll be up for it!” Sonic replies, smiling. His eyes look dark - not the sparkling, shining eyes of the other lads, straining at the leash of anticipation.

After several more Carlings the conversation descended further. The chatter was mostly about the shenanigans of the previous evening and the forthcoming game, though most of what was said made little sense. I felt fairly restrained, perhaps the stifled air of the quaint pub relaxing my aggressive streak.

Outside and we’re striding to the ground now, a pack of us, hunting for the foe. The ground is still a good ten minutes walk but I can feel the tension in the air. I feel fresh and hungry, the hangover from the night before long forgotten. We reach a pub we’re told is full of home supporters. Taylor is first up the steps, throwing a smoke-releasing canister inside the pub. A second’s delay, the tension unbearable as we wait for the canister to do its work. The younger elements of the group, most notably Dave and Simon, are leaping with excitement, their eyes wild with delirious abandonment. Whits tells them to shut up but there is no holding them back. Spuddy looks tense, his face set in a determined stare, watching the door for the first sign of movement as the men from Ashton Gate come roaring out to defend their territory.

A few more seconds pass, and some men glance around, uncertain as to the cause of the delay. Suddenly, the air is torn apart by the yell of a startled male, before the door crashes open and the first of many confused and blinded men stumble out of the pub. We get stuck in, the fists flying, people falling to the floor, rolling and turning trying to escape the flurry of kicks.
This seems too easy. The resistance is pathetic. There are too many replica shirts for this to be a hardcore rival football firm. I expected a lot more from City than this. This can’t be their firm, and the other lads know it. The police are already on scene, and a couple of the men are being dragged away. Sonic is held by four burly police officers, his face a picture of disappointment and defeatism. It was never going to be his day.

We walk away, almost apologetically at attacking such a poorly defended pub, reputed as having been one of the main watering holes of the hardcore home fans. We walk into the ground with a feeling of emptiness, as though the main event has been cancelled, the football match on hand is merely a distraction.

The game rages on the pitch, and a few crunching tackles show the importance of the game. The Bristol fans taunt us with chants of “going down” whilst we reply with dubious chants about incest and sexual deviance. Jan is getting riled and screams abuse back at the City fans, before telling to curb his language by the stewards. I hate the stewards, one step down from the pigs, but there’s no use losing your rag in here. Besides, most of the chants generally emanate from kids. You can’t fight kids.

Half time comes and the match is predictably close, with both defences being extremely cagey and the score line remaining a boring 0-0. Reg and Dazza come back with tasty-looking cheeseburgers, but the shrapnel in my pocket will only stretch to a measly Bovril. Nozza is next to me but engrossed in a match programme, so I just stand bored until the second half, hoping for a better display of football to make up for the disappointment of the day so far.

The second half kicks off with much of the same as the first half. The fan’s excitement increases as the half wears on, fully aware that their team need a goal to earn the right to stay in the division. I glance at my watch and see there’s 10 minutes remaining. I consider leaving early, hitting a pub to get steamed for a night out tonight. I look up out onto the muddy pitch as Swindon midfielder Miglioranzi picks up the ball in his own half. He looks square and lays a ball off to fullback Andy Nicholas. Absolute rubbish, the team should be looking forward, don’t they want to stay in the division? A long high hopeful ball into the box. Brilliant. If either of the Swindon forwards were over 6 foot they might have had a chance of winning the ball against a freakishly large City defence. I glance into the sky only to have my attention drawn back to the game by the collective gasp of breath from both the City and Swindon fans. Somehow the ball had found it’s way back to Miglioranzi on the area. He shimmied on the ball before firing it low towards the bottom corner. The City keeper dived in vain as the ball crashed into the corner of the net.

Pandemonium. Arms aloft I ran like a madman towards the front and jumped into a pile of bodies consisting of fans, players and anyone who may have got in the way of the melee. Truly typical of league football. A so far boring day transformed into ecstasy in a matter of seconds. We will be celebrating on the streets of Bristol tonight, loud and proud, who cares if we get a kicking for it? We are staying up!

Word Count: 1662