49. Where are all the pork pies?

As some 32% of the readers of these accounts are from outside the UK and many of the UK readers are from outside London and as it is possible that more than half of you have no interest at all in the English Premier Football League. I think that we may need a:

GLOSSARY

Arsenal Football Club              

It was founded in 1886 in London. It was the first club from the south of England to join the football league and is now the third most valuable football club in the world, valued at $1.2 billion. Currently 3rd in the Premiership.

Emirates Stadium                   

The current home of Arsenal FC. The stadium opened in July 2006 and has an all seated capacity of 60,355.

Gooner                                    

An Arsenal fan. Global fan base estimated at 27 million.

(Deranged Gooner)                  

Classic example of tautology.

Manchester City                      

The other Manchester Club. Currently 2nd in the Premiership.

Blue Scousers                        

Everton Football Club.

Tottenham Hotspur                 

This is the other North London club and the rivalry is intense.

White Hart Lane                      

Tottenham’s ground which is less than four miles from the Emirates.

Winchmore Hill                        

A suburb of North London.

The Yids                                              

Racist term applied to Tottenham FC and their supporters by Gooners.

I always find it very hard to buy a present for Caroline. From the beginning of March, I am constantly on the lookout for any clue as to what she would like for her birthday in June and then, after that, it’s a constant worry about what to buy her for Christmas.  I on the other hand am very easy to buy for.  Any gadget will do for me and that’s why the automatic pepper mill was my best present at Christmas.

Last November and by then desperate, I gave up searching for clues and I asked her outright, “What do you want for Christmas?”

The trouble is that Caroline has everything she needs and she wants for nothing. “I’d like to go to a football match,” she said. “I’ve never been to one. But I don’t want that as a Christmas present,” she added quickly. “I want something I can unwrap.”

Every time we travel into London from Winchmore Hill on the train we pass about 100 yards from the Emirates Stadium, the home of Arsenal Football Club. 

I looked at the fixture list and discovered that on January 5th they were playing there against Manchester City.  Caroline has always told me that if she is a supporter of any football team it is Manchester City.  She was brought up in Alderley Edge only a few miles from City’s ground.

I asked her some questions to find out how keen she was.  “Can you name any Manchester City players?” I asked her.

 “Yes – Francis Lee, Colin Bell, Mike Summerbee, Denis Tueart, Joe Corrigan,” she rattled off effortlessly.

I was impressed.  “Would you like to see Arsenal play City?” I said. She was thrilled.  “Will Dennis Tueart be playing?” she asked.  “I doubt it,” I told her.

I went online to buy tickets - £340 for two.  The tickets were £94 each but service charge and handling fees added over £150. 

We agreed that was ridiculous and much too expensive.  I mentioned this to Julian the Butcher across the road and the next day he told me that he could get me two tickets for £140.  I didn’t ask any questions.

The kick off was at 7:45 on Wednesday evening and I arranged to meet Caroline at 6:00 in a pub on the Holloway Road only a quarter of a mile from the ground.  I was early.

As I approached the door two Heavies stopped me.  

“Let’s see your ticket!” 

“I haven’t got one,  My wife has them and I’m meeting her here. Do I need a ticket to come into a pub?”

“Arsenal supporters only in ‘ere. Where’re you from?”

“Winchmore Hill,” I said.

“Is that Manchester?”

Eventually they were persuaded that this short, overweight cripple leaning on his walking stick was neither from the north, nor likely to start a fight and so I was allowed in.

The Emirates Stadium is magnificent.  It is actually quite beautiful and there is so much space everywhere.  There is even a lift/elevator that took us up to the level of our seats.  By 7:00 p.m. we were sitting ready to soak up the atmosphere and enjoy the pre-match entertainment but there was neither.

Twenty years ago, I used to go to White Hart Lane to watch Tottenham and to the old Highbury Stadium to watch Arsenal.  The differences in the experiences then and today are colossal. 

Now, everyone is seated. There was no singing or chanting and in fact at 7:25 most of the seats were still empty, as people seemed to be in the bars behind the seating areas.

Ten minutes before kick off the place started to fill but it was still very quiet. Even when the game began there was no ‘Wall of Noise’ as I had been expecting and had warned Caroline about.

The people on both sides of us and behind us, continued their conversations. They were obviously paying very little attention to the game and I was quite distracted as I listened to a list of the problems to be encountered when sailing in the estuary at Maldon. 

Some of those near me were still in the suits that they had been wearing in the office at work. At half time I was tempted to go and look for the vol au vents and quiche stall but I didn’t as I expected there would be a long queue. No wonder there is no atmosphere in the stadium!

 “Where are all the hooligans?” Caroline asked me. “No one has thrown anything and I haven’t heard any bad language – except from you.” She was right. It was like being in the crowd on a cold day at Lord’s cricket ground.

It reminded me very much of the crowd behaviour at the Busch Baseball Stadium in St Louis where Caroline and I had seen the Cardinals play the Pittsburgh Pirates in 2006.  No one there but us seemed to be watching the game either and there was a constant hubbub of chat.  People were constantly getting out of their seats and going to the bar or to the food outlets.

We were sitting behind the goal at the Clock End about two thirds of the way up. Every time the ball came into the penalty area, everyone in front of us stood up blocking my view and so I had to stand up too. I stand up more slowly than most people and I kept missing the goalmouth action. For the rest of the time the view was fantastic.

The enmity and hatred towards Tottenham is tangible. That evening they were playing two hundred miles away on Merseyside but, “Stand up if you hate Tottenham,” was the regular chant and everyone who heard it, did and so I did too.  Otherwise, all I could see was the back of the person in front of me. This chant was uttered whenever there was a lull in play and as a result I was up and down about thirty times in the first half.

Our favourite chant was an exchange between those to our left and those to our right.

LEFT              Who do we hate?

RIGHT            Tottenham

LEFT              Thanks very much

   RIGHT        Thass’all right

Poor Tottenham! At the end of the game I was informed with some glee by a deranged Gooner that, “The Blue Scousers had fucked the Yids.”

It was a 0 – 0 draw and it wasn’t a very good game but Caroline had loved it and so I suppose that was the important thing.

Sadly for Caroline, Dennis Tueart, her favourite player, didn’t play. That was a shame because his direct aggressive style on the right wing was just what the game needed.

Glossary(continued)

Denis Tueart                            

Along with Francis Lee, Colin Bell, Mike Summerbee and Joe Corrigan, he was a star Manchester City player in the 1970s when Caroline was a girl.

41. Brief Encounter

I had an encounter at a railway station the other day.  It was brief.

We don’t have an underground station in Winchmore Hill but we do have a rail link to Moorgate in the City of London.  The service is fast with the journey to Moorgate only taking 28 minutes.  Winchmore Hill railway station was built in 1871 and hasn’t altered very much since.  During the early morning we have trains scheduled at 13, 33 and 53 minutes past every hour.

Caroline catches a train from here to go to work on most days but I rarely use it.  I don’t go into central London very often and only do so when I really must.  One morning, I had to go into London and so Caroline and I went together.  

When we arrived at 7:05, the platform was, according to Caroline, more crowded than usual.  A number of people stood, strung out at intervals along most of the length of it.

A notice board suddenly became illuminated and informed us that the 6:53 was expected at 7:09.  Trains were running late.  From the 70 or more people standing there, shivering in the cold morning air, solitary and private, there was an audible hum of expectation that just managed to break the prevailing silence.  

There was no mention of the 7:13, which was the train that we were expecting to catch but that wasn’t an issue as we would be able to get on the 6:53 in just four minutes time.

As we all stood there staring expectantly up the line, the board lit up again and this time told us that the 7:13 was also delayed and was anticipated at 7:20.  All the time, more and more people were coming down the steps from the ticket office at the rate of around twenty every minute.  Now, we were informed that the 6:53 would be with us at 7:18.

“The 6:53 is going faster than the 7:13,” I told Caroline.  “It’s catching it up.  It’s only nine minutes behind it.”  

The platform was getting very crowded and Caroline began playing a game on her phone to pass the time.  We stood in silence for several minutes and I thought how different it would be if something similar could ever happen in Cayman. 

It couldn’t of course because commuters there all travel by car, cycle on the wrong side of the road or walk, as there are no trains.  I would have certainly made two or three new close friends and would probably be turning down dinner invitations too, by now.

The silence was broken by someone clumping noisily down the metal staircase.  Down the steps came a middle-aged woman with an expression of intense fury on her face.  “This is outrageous!” she announced to no one in particular.  “Outrageous!  There are no complaint forms!  How can I complain without a form?  I’ll write to the Regulator – or The Guardian!”  

The outraged lady stopped and stood next to me.  “There’s someone meeting me at Finsbury Park,” she said after a minute or two, looking at me directly.

“Oh,” I said, smiling a little nervously.  Caroline took a couple of paces backwards, as she always does when a nutter befriends me and that happens a lot.  What is it about me that makes misfits and angry people think that I am sympathetic to their weird thoughts and ideas?  I looked away from her, hoping that she would move on.

People had stopped coming down the steps as the platform was very crowded now and the gate at the top must have been closed.  Another message appeared on the board.  The next train would be at 7:35 and another at 7:38.

“Yes, but which is which?” demanded the angry lady of everyone within 20 feet of her.  Some people sniggered.  I thought that it was funny too but as she was directing her anger straight at me, I kept a straight face and just shrugged.

“It doesn’t really matter does it?” I asked her quietly.  “Just get on the first one.”  

“Doesn’t matter?  Doesn’t matter!  Oh, but it does matter, young man.  I’m being met at Finsbury Park, you know.”

“I’m sure he’ll wait for both trains,” I said.

“She,” she snapped.  “She’s expecting me on the 6:53. What happens if the 7:13 gets there first?”

“It can’t,” I said, trying to explain gently.  “It’s not like a motorway.  Trains can’t overtake one another.  You’ll be all right.”

In the distance a train appeared.  We all stood and watched it getting larger and larger for over a minute as it approached.  A railway employee walked by.

“What train’s this?” my new friend enquired, impatiently.

He looked up at the station clock.

“This will be the 7:33,” he said.  “It’s a little late.”

“SEE?” she shouted at me.  “SEE?  I’ve missed my train.  My day’s ruined!”

I said nothing but I turned and walked down the platform to get away from her, as the prospect of having her ranting at me, trapped in the same carriage for twenty minutes, was too awful to risk.  Caroline followed, giggling.  We got on but I don’t know if the woman did.  I assume she didn’t. 

All the seats were taken and we had to stand.  

“She called me ‘young man’,” I said.

“Ha, so she’s blind as well as bonkers,” Caroline sighed.

39. Tea and spuds

I did something on Monday that I know I will come to regret, as the ramifications will affect me for the foreseeable future - but I’d do it again.

On the days that Caroline is at work it is my custom and habit at around 1 pm to walk the 60 yards or so to a rather good café/restaurant around the corner.  I usually order a cheese and tomato or a ham roll, plus a coca cola for my lunch.

I am usually the only man in there.  Ladies of Winchmore Hill who lunch, don’t really have anywhere to go but there.  As I went in I could see that most tables were occupied with a number of women eating their salads and toasted panino.

Monday was cold and feeling both chilly and adventurous, I asked for a cup of tea instead of coke.  The proprietoress was a little miffed at this because she had seen me come in and she had already opened a bottle of coke.

If you have read Chocolate pastry which I posted on Saturday, August 7^th, you will know that I tend to get a bee in my bonnet about the making of tea.  You may remember the distress I suffered at the way Adrienne, a French girl, made my tea but that anguish is as nothing when compared with the suffering, pain and grief that I experienced this week.

On to my table, the ‘lady’ (I won’t name her) placed a cup of hot water, a tea bag still in its paper wrapping on the saucer, a jug of milk and a spoon.

“What’s this?” I asked.

“Your tea.”

“No its not!  Tea is made with boiling water.  This isn’t tea.”

“It was boiling.”

“Yes, it may have been once but it certainly isn’t now.”

“That’s how my customers like it,” she said, defiantly.

“Do they?” I asked, incredulously.  “Do they really?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t believe you,” I said.

“Ooooh,” said the ten or so Winchmore Hill Ladies, who were listening, enthralled.

I was suddenly aware that the place had gone quiet.

“Are you calling me a liar?” the owner asked.

“Aaaaah,” said the Winchmore Hill Ladies, leaning forwards in their seats.

‘Well, yes.  I suppose that I am,” I said, realising that I was way past the point of no return.

So that means that I’ve got to find somewhere else to eat in future.  Was it worth it?  Yes, of course it was.  The Crusade must go on!

********

I bought some shares ten weeks ago.  I have never bought shares before and there are a couple of reasons for this.  First of all I never had the money to speculate with and secondly, I know nothing whatsoever about business and it all seemed too risky to me anyway.

A friend of mine, who works for a small publicly-owned company, told me that things at work were looking up and were actually quite exciting.

“Ten months ago,” he told me, “the shares in the company were priced at 13p each.”  Now they were at 35p, with the prospect of an imminent sharp rise, he thought. 

“Should I buy some?” I asked.

“Oh God no,” he said,  “I’d feel awful if they plummeted back down and you’d never forgive me.”

“Don’t be silly.  Of course I would,” I said.  “It would be like playing a game of poker.  When I start to play poker I always assume that I will lose everything and so if I don’t, even if I’ve lost, I’m still a winner.”

“Well it’s up to you,” he said, “but please don’t spend more than you can afford to lose because things really could go horribly wrong.”

Over the next couple of days I told everyone about this company and the ridiculously underpriced shares.

Two weeks later my brother phoned me and he was jubilant and more excited than I’d ever heard him before.

“Have you heard the news?” he said.  “It was in the Business Report on the radio.  They’ve made a huge discovery in the North Sea.  Biggest since the sixties.”

“What’s the share price now,” I asked.

“74p,” he said.  We’ve more than doubled our money.  I’m going to buy a Mercedes.”

The following morning, my next-door neighbour, two friends, Julian the butcher over the road and a couple of his customers, contacted me by phone or in person to tell me how grateful they were.  I’d never been so popular.

Sadly, I couldn’t join in this euphoria, as I hadn’t actually bought any myself. I’m not going any further with this now but that just about sums up many aspects of my life – one missed opportunity after another!

Of course I did buy some the next day and even though I missed getting them at 35p, I did get them at 77.5p and now, ten weeks later on October 22^nd they are at 115.5p.

I’ve discovered a web site where I can watch constant, real time updates on the share price and I’m acquiring a whole new vocabulary.

I’ve learnt to despise the “Shorters” and to look out for the “spike” with the prospect of “topping up on the way down”.  When we have, “finished shaking out the doubters,” I intend to “buy on the rise“ and I vow to myself only ever to “buy on rumour, sell on fact” - or is it the other way round?

It’s like watching a very, very long, slow horse race. Sometimes my ‘horse’ is leading the field and sometimes, like this week when they have dropped 9.5p, it’s struggling.

I’m not selling yet though.  I’m in it for the long term.  I want a Mercedes too. 

I just wish they’d set the “spud date” and start “spudding” so we get some news.