Did He Really Mean It?

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The knee. Oh the knee. Twisted whilst playing football at truck, it had laid me up for a week. But by God it was not going to ruin the FA cup. Oh no. 

 My FA cup run actually began on friday afternoon in Carnaby Street. Drenched from a typical late september downpour, I headed into Muji for a chance to dry off. It was there that I spotted it. A beige plastic raincoat that lept off the sales rack (reduced from £79 to £45 ) and into my heart. Fate had led me to this coat. It didn’t bother me that I looked like a cross between arkwright from open all hours and Arthur Daley, I liked it, and that is all that mattered. Little did I know that this would become my lucky charm.

Saturday was spent at Hendon. I won’t go on much, as dammit, this isn’t about Hendon. It was a drab affair, as Hornchurch dominated but only scored once, and we missed Hendons equaliser by watching soccer saturday (this is twice in a row this has happened at Hendon to me. I might as well just sit in the fecking bar for the whole match). The result was a good one, as it meant the Borehamwood vs Hendon game scheduled for the tuesday was re-arranged.  Quite how the decemberists could be as selfish as to arrange a gig that night is beyond me.

 Sunday I awoke in an office in carnaby street (there is a theme developing), knackered after a night hobbling at afterskool. After a painstaking journey home, I promptly had a shower and turned back around, following some breakfast from good old mummy. I was off to Dulwich, full of anticipation and last nights snakebite rotting my guts.

 Immediately there was trouble. i was met by Tom at London Bridge to be told the words that every person hates, ‘No trains, its rail replacement buses instead’. This soured my mood instantly. I HATE rail replacement buses. Not knowing quite where Dulwich is, I boarded, to be told that it could take about an hour. With the unseasonable warmth causing me to feel uncomfortable as it was, the last thing I needed was to sit on a bus for an hour. I am, as bamos so lovingly puts it, a ‘large unit’, and this was getting rather toasty.

 Thankfully the journey wasn’t too bad, as we discussed just how shit Liverpool is as a city (Slagging Liverpool off being another re-occuring theme). Making it to the ground 5 minutes before kick off, we met up with bamos and joe, as well as eddie, albeit briefly. This was it, this was the FA Cup.

 The first half was suprisingly entertaining. I nearly got decapitated after 10 minutes by an errant clearance.  Chalfont attacked at will, but provided the distribution skills of Stephen Hawking. I always think that there isn’t that big a gap between non league and division 3, but whenever I watch this level, I see why they are playing to 16 men and a dog every week. Thats not to say its not entertaining of course, just shocking in terms of the little things.

Helder Valdes’ early injury gave me my first chance to lay my eyes on the legendary Phil. And boy he didn’t dissapoint. He was here. He was there. He was every fucking where. He was Phil. His arrival marked Dulwich getting a grip on the game, and a goal (which was slightly undeserved) came, through a nonchalant flick of the right foot by Shaun Beveny. His exuberant dance in the corner only added to the sense of injustice.

And that was the first half. We retreated to the bar, for a refreshing (and fully deserved, unlike hamlets lead) pint. The worlds dullest birthday party was in full swing, as we recalled stories of cab drivers farting, and general slagging of all things scouse.

Now, a quick diversion. As you know, I am an Arsenal fan, and have witnessed first hand the lows (michael owen in the last minute 2001) and the highs (’its only ray parlour’ 2002) of the worlds most famous cup competition. But nothing really compared to that 2nd half at Dulwich in terms of a mixture of the two emotions.

Chalfont came at Dulwich in the second half, and one of the few good balls in the entire 90 minutes led to them clipping the crossbar. Our hearts skipped a collective beat. Worried glances were exchanged. Chalfont were back in it. My nerves were so frayed that I asked for a cigarette, having vowed that I would never smoke again the week before. It wasn’t even lit when they equalised. In the 85th minute, Sheikh Ceesay (who had us in stitches with his continuous cry of ‘PHIL’) made a point blank save, only to see the follow up sail high into the net. Oh Shit, we are off to Chalfont we all thought. Its at these points that crazy thoughts are running through your head. Bank balances, train journeys, intimidating away fans. At one point we reached our lowest and actually said ‘I don’t care who scores, as long as its not a reply.’ I feel ashamed to have ever have thought it.

Salvation was on hand though. As a Catholic, my blind faith is strong, and I knew the big man upstairs would send an angel to save us. Thankfully he sent Steve May. Thinking back to it now its almost a blockbuster film ending. After the cry of ‘nice arse’ went up by a fat man for no apparent reason, Steve picks up the ball. He plays a one two. He’s in the box. Its the 90th fucking minute. Time slows down. ‘HIT THE FUCKING THING!!’

It nestles into the bottom corner

2-1

I’m off. I don’t care if I tear every muscle in my leg, I am off. Haring down the touchline looking like David Pleat on speed. The first person to reach me is mahon. We jump up and down, hugging. I’m almost crying. ‘WE’RE NOT GOING TO CHALFONT’ I scream in a high pitched voice. Soon we are all together, huddled in sheer joy. My knee buckles but I don’t care. We’ve just fucking scored in the last minute.

Injury time seems like an eternity. I’m pointing to my wrist more than alex ferguson. ‘Just blow the whistle you bastard’ is said more than once. Dulwich score again, but its offside. Then the sweetest sound of them all. The whistle blows and we embrace once more. This is the FA Cup. This is magic. This is Dulwich fucking Hamlet my son.

I feel for the Chalfont players as they lay on the pitch, devastated. But my sympathy lasts all of 3 minutes as the word ‘pub’ is mentioned. The night descends into chaos, as we sink 2 sambucas in 20 seconds, and at least 9 pints and more shots over the night. Joe ends up going through a gate and into a garden. My belly gets labelled a ’shitrapecarpet’. Ireland get trounced in the rugby. But nothing can wipe the smiles from our faces.

God bless the FA Cup.