Friday, 28 March 2008
First one in to Blundell Park, turn on the lights
There are things that all of us Grimbarians and Meggies have in common. We all pronounce our vowels with a grinding rasp that could put a mammoth in a coma. None of us knew had heard of a balti until 2003. And we all love to go and watch our local football team once every ten years or so.
It may be, of course, that you're one of that smattering of social deviants who attend the Mariners' matches more often. You might even belong to that handful of dangerous obsessives who hold something called a 'season ticket'. But with Town having sold 25,000 tickets for Sunday's big match at Wembley, against an average attendance at Blundell Park this season of 4,200, it may be useful for us to compare and contrast the two stadiums.
First, both stadiums have a decent public transport infrastructure. Blundell Park is easily accessible by bus and rail (in marked contrast, it seems, to John Fenty's proposed new ground on the outskirts of Grimsby) and Wembley goes so far as to call itself "a public transport stadium". It may be impossible to get there from Grimsby by train in time for the stupid 1:15 kick-off on Sunday, but that's the fault of Sky, not the railways.
The managers of Wembley maintain a long list of items that spectators are not allowed to bring into the ground. This includes anything that features "corporate or inappropriate branding". Presumably no such rule exists at Blundell Park; otherwise there'd be no admittance to the Pontoon for all those scrawny 12-year-olds wearing Liverpool and Manchester United shirts.
Also on the list of prohibited items at the national stadium are cans, bottles and flasks, whether they are glass or plastic. Ostensibly this is for safety reasons. Realistically, it's so the kiosks inside the ground can charge you £5.50 for a cup of warm Evian.
But they need the money more than you do. Wembley's building costs hugely overshot the estimate, creating a debt of Humber Bridge proportions. Mr Fenty admitted recently that his proposed new ground has a £6m shortfall in its funding – but he also says that the cost of staying at Blundell Park would be the club ceasing to exist.
It makes you wonder why Lincoln, Rochdale, Hereford and indeed all 13 fourth division clubs with lower attendances than us this season aren't planning to build new grounds, because they must all be in even greater danger of ceasing to exist, but there you go.
Or, if you're one of the hordes who'll be at Wembley with black and white flags and face paint but won't walk down the road to see the Town at Blundell Park, there you don't go. See you in 2018, folks!
It may be, of course, that you're one of that smattering of social deviants who attend the Mariners' matches more often. You might even belong to that handful of dangerous obsessives who hold something called a 'season ticket'. But with Town having sold 25,000 tickets for Sunday's big match at Wembley, against an average attendance at Blundell Park this season of 4,200, it may be useful for us to compare and contrast the two stadiums.
First, both stadiums have a decent public transport infrastructure. Blundell Park is easily accessible by bus and rail (in marked contrast, it seems, to John Fenty's proposed new ground on the outskirts of Grimsby) and Wembley goes so far as to call itself "a public transport stadium". It may be impossible to get there from Grimsby by train in time for the stupid 1:15 kick-off on Sunday, but that's the fault of Sky, not the railways.
The managers of Wembley maintain a long list of items that spectators are not allowed to bring into the ground. This includes anything that features "corporate or inappropriate branding". Presumably no such rule exists at Blundell Park; otherwise there'd be no admittance to the Pontoon for all those scrawny 12-year-olds wearing Liverpool and Manchester United shirts.
Also on the list of prohibited items at the national stadium are cans, bottles and flasks, whether they are glass or plastic. Ostensibly this is for safety reasons. Realistically, it's so the kiosks inside the ground can charge you £5.50 for a cup of warm Evian.
But they need the money more than you do. Wembley's building costs hugely overshot the estimate, creating a debt of Humber Bridge proportions. Mr Fenty admitted recently that his proposed new ground has a £6m shortfall in its funding – but he also says that the cost of staying at Blundell Park would be the club ceasing to exist.
It makes you wonder why Lincoln, Rochdale, Hereford and indeed all 13 fourth division clubs with lower attendances than us this season aren't planning to build new grounds, because they must all be in even greater danger of ceasing to exist, but there you go.
Or, if you're one of the hordes who'll be at Wembley with black and white flags and face paint but won't walk down the road to see the Town at Blundell Park, there you don't go. See you in 2018, folks!
Labels: blundell park, debt, fentydome, new stadiums, parochialism, premiership, support, trains, transport, wembley
Friday, 7 March 2008
O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done
There are many opposing ideas about the exact point at which one crosses the line into adulthood. Some say it's when you lose your virginity. Others insist it is the day you pass your driving test. They can't both be right, because I did one of those twenty years ago but have never managed the other to this day, and the only freakish adult/child hybrids currently known to British medical science are still Ant and Dec.
Getting older is a different experience for everyone. There are those who seem to retain their youth well into middle age without the use of radical cosmetic surgery. And there are others whose craggy looks and stroppy demeanour make them seem a couple of decades older than their actual chronological age. Step forward, Mr Wayne Rooney.
Ageing seems to happen more quickly at some times than at others. "You're only as old as you feel," people say. For most of my twenties, as I shrugged my carefree way between temping jobs and postgraduate degrees, I still felt about 17. Then after the last five minutes of the match on Tuesday night, when Town's hopes of a trip to Wembley were under relentless bombardment from Morecambe's hefty forward line, I felt about 90.
Indeed, my mood has continued beyond my years for the rest of the week. This weekend's match has not helped. When the two greatest evils of the modern game combine in one fixture, you're bound to come over a bit crotchety.
It's bad enough having to watch your team play against a shameless franchise operation instead of a legitimate football club, but when it's on a Friday night as well it's all you can do not to book yourself into the nearest care home for the elderly, develop premature dementia and spend the week explaining to the staff that it wasn't like that in your day and the world is going to Hell in a handcart, and all those other weary clichés that people recite from the Daily Express when they're a bit fed up.
At the same time, though, there are always things that make you feel young again. Springtime does the trick. A good night out never fails. And it's surprising how often I meet 18-year-olds who have projected their entire career structure, earnings and annual pension contributions on an interactive Excel spreadsheet.
Personally, I'd like to see Justin Whittle back in the side and playing as many games as possible between now and the end of the season. Because the real indicator that you're properly grown-up is when you're older than every player in the team you support. And since Sir John McDermott retired, the Sarge is all I have left to cling to.
Getting older is a different experience for everyone. There are those who seem to retain their youth well into middle age without the use of radical cosmetic surgery. And there are others whose craggy looks and stroppy demeanour make them seem a couple of decades older than their actual chronological age. Step forward, Mr Wayne Rooney.
Ageing seems to happen more quickly at some times than at others. "You're only as old as you feel," people say. For most of my twenties, as I shrugged my carefree way between temping jobs and postgraduate degrees, I still felt about 17. Then after the last five minutes of the match on Tuesday night, when Town's hopes of a trip to Wembley were under relentless bombardment from Morecambe's hefty forward line, I felt about 90.
Indeed, my mood has continued beyond my years for the rest of the week. This weekend's match has not helped. When the two greatest evils of the modern game combine in one fixture, you're bound to come over a bit crotchety.
It's bad enough having to watch your team play against a shameless franchise operation instead of a legitimate football club, but when it's on a Friday night as well it's all you can do not to book yourself into the nearest care home for the elderly, develop premature dementia and spend the week explaining to the staff that it wasn't like that in your day and the world is going to Hell in a handcart, and all those other weary clichés that people recite from the Daily Express when they're a bit fed up.
At the same time, though, there are always things that make you feel young again. Springtime does the trick. A good night out never fails. And it's surprising how often I meet 18-year-olds who have projected their entire career structure, earnings and annual pension contributions on an interactive Excel spreadsheet.
Personally, I'd like to see Justin Whittle back in the side and playing as many games as possible between now and the end of the season. Because the real indicator that you're properly grown-up is when you're older than every player in the team you support. And since Sir John McDermott retired, the Sarge is all I have left to cling to.
Labels: age, ageing, football league trophy, mcdermott, morecambe, rooney, time, wembley, whittle
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