Far From The MCC

~ Est. in 1998 ~

“2010 Wembley Trip: Rugby ”

Saturday 17^th April 2010

Result: Inebriated

Venue: Wembley Stadium, London

Midday+

Following insulting accusations against his fellow team members from the Far From The MCC, Steve Dobner organised a Saturday day out to Wembley to see if he could lure his mates away from their comfortable and idyllic existence within leafy Oxfordshire. As a season ticket holder with Saracens Rugby Club, our Essex Homeboy was able to procure a bunch for the day for as little as a tenner, and thus present an invitation to his spiritual homeland that the gentlemen of the Mad would find very hard to make an excuse not to accept.

You really couldn’t have scripted it, but just a week prior to the Wembley trip, a huge ash cloud billowing out of an Icelandic volcano put paid to Steve’s hopes of actually making his own social day out. All flights were grounded, the skies were free of contrails, and Mr. Dobner was stuck in Tenerife with the kids and the ball and chain. Or at least that was his story….

Volcano in Iceland? My arse….

Not to be deterred, and based on the knowledge that Essex counterpart Gary Littlechild was in receipt of the tickets, a reduced number of Mad set off for London on the “great day out” - or at least that was the intention when this Oxfordshire party assembled at the Angel and Greyhound at midday. The weather was of course beautiful - the sun shone, the skies were blue, and there were no vapour trails above. Cider and beer were good, eye-candy trotting by was great, and the only minor gripe was the perhaps absence of any parental supervision - or at least just one member of the cast who had some sort of control when it came to drinking.

Ian Leggate was of course running late, and despite several phone calls and texts to “get a fucking move on”, it was actually nearer to 3pm when the Oxford Tube left St. Clements with our small ramshackle posse. Traffic was traditionally static, and D. Emerson’s efforts to hydrate over the course of the coach ride, were thwarted by an off licence apparently selling only Stella.

Ian Howarth (left) never did like Dave “Eurhythmic” Stewart’s music.

Hillingdon tube station provided the destination, but alas The Swallow pub sat atop of the line, and as such our adventurers were keen to inspect the plastic furniture inside, and ingratiate themselves with the toothless, power-drinking locals. There was some basic seating outside, and you did get a sweeping panoramic view of a timber yard infested with rats, so the establishment did gain a few points in the CAMRA hand book.

On arrival at Wembley via the tube line, contact with an anxious G. Littlechild was established, and after gorging themselves on overpriced hot dogs and burgers on the main approach, the Oxford contingent met up with their exasperated Essex counterpart outside the main entrance. Assuming all teachers are quite astute, it would have taken Gary all of about 3 seconds to realise his chums were wankered.

“Je vous aime mon chéri!”

At a cost of three quarters of a billion pounds, Wembley Stadium really should be a state of the art facility for the 21^st century, and indeed, the view from the seated terraces to the pitch is excellent. What is less so, is the abhorrent watered down beer at £4 a plastic cup, the tasteless onion-bereft burgers at a similar price, the woefully inadequate toilet facilities, and the whole draconian security presence. It maybe my northern heritage coming to the fore here, but I’ve enjoyed the experience at many a footballing minnow far more than this place, and at least they put onions and ketchup on your fucking burger!

The slippy pudding of a pitch did little to detract from an excellent Saracens performance, where they tonked the Harlequins to the tune of 37 points to 18. The game flew by, probably due to the inebriation, but I can remember the Mexican Wave quite vividly, as it rolled around the vast arena allowing Mr. Emerson to throw his beer on everyone as he celebrated in style.

Cotton and nylon are waterproof apparently….

After the game, I thanked Gary for his efforts in being the adopted adult for the day, and then got caught in the squash of human traffic leaving the stadium. Amidst the blur of colour, I eventually found the guys running shapes through the new water fountain display outside. The sun was just setting, and so concentrating on another beer to mask the pain of pneumonia seemed an appealing option to them – and who was I to argue?

Reunited with Mr. Smith at The Swallow in Hillingdon, it took only seven or eight attempts to eventually catch a coach back to Oxford. In this time, there was opportunity to empty the water out of Dave’s mobile phone, and for Mr. Leggate to regale stories from of a match he simply couldn’t remember.

Postcard as taken by PC Plod (with helmet between his legs).

After saluting a line of Sambucas, and toasting to a hedonistic day out, I left the guys at the Cape of Good Hope in Oxford and headed for home. It now dawned on me why the skipper of the Mad, Mr. Westmoreland, had had second thoughts about the day, especially since he already had two children and a wife to look after.

‘Spam’

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