View From The Dolan: Not On The Christmas List

Ben talks us through a defeat to Blackpool that was, well, not very festive at all.

I don’t make Christmas or gift lists. Largely because I’m not 12, but also because it’s pointless. It’s just stuff, isn’t it. You can’t take it with you, so it seems ridiculous to ask for things that are effectively material items that have a shelf life.

If I DID write a list, though, one of the things that wouldn’t be on it would be a 3-0 reverse to a mid-table team in the first home game of the new manager’s reign and in front of an inflated crowd. But of course, that’s exactly what we got, so that’s good.

I had both children with me for this one (they are my children, don’t worry. Twins, in fact). My son comes to most games with me but my daughter was forced by default to attend this one. Of course, as a fashion-conscious nine-going-on-19-year old, she turned down any offer of her brother’s kits or training wear or her dad’s scarf. No, she would attend the game sans-colours of the clubs she’s legally and morally obliged to support.

These events come with certain amount of bribery and, as part of the conditions of sale for her attendance, we had to go to Smyths (on a Saturday in December FFS!) and McDonald’s (on a match day in December FFS!).

Both were rammed, let’s be clear. Like really, really busy. Offensively busy. For the latter, we had to sit outside as there was no room at the inn/American fast food eatery. As we sat, we noticed two small birds watching all the eaters, hungry for small crumbs of delight, much like the Reading fans expectant for a large slice of three points pie, who had also chosen this venue for their pre-match munch.

With the meal (I mean, you can’t really call it that, can you? You burp and you’re hungry straight away) finishing, the big sounds of Only the Poets wafted down the hill towards us. For what it’s worth, this is a cracking initiative from the club and one that I hope really takes off. To have local bands (or any bands, really) playing in the fanzone pre-game is a decent way to make game days feel a bit more vital, away from the football of course.

A short stroll up the hill (“it’s too steep, my legs hurt”) led us nicely (not nicely) to the club shop, which allowed them both to gang up on me to buy them things they didn’t need. After that, I needed a wet drink in the hotel, where my dad was waiting.

As I began to sip my fizzy lager, my daughter approached me:

“Dad, can I go to the party?”

“What party?”

“The Young Royals one.”

“How do you know about that?”

“I heard someone talking about it in the shop.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because you aren’t a Young Royal, Ella.”

“I’d like to be.”

“You wouldn’t, you’d only like it for the premium sign on gifts and would, at a stretch, mildly enjoy the membership initiatives, like this party today.”

“...Can I go then?”

By this point, I just wanted the game done and dusted. Judging by the queues at gate five, the stewards felt the same. The turnstiles were on a go-slow, which is definitely not the fault of those manning them in the ground, but it just seems symptomatic that, whenever we have these grassroots days with increased attendances, something goes wrong to ultimately put off any newcomers or rare attendees from coming back.

I’d never seen queues like it, I have to say. Hindsight is lovely of course, but had I known what I’d see the other side of the turnstile, I’d have rather spent that time queuing.

From the off we looked like hippos on ice skates, like penguins in the desert, like horses knitting, like bears sitting on thimbles: uncomfortable, out of place and awkward. It was utterly bizarre and so unexpected.

The players looked lost and for no apparent reason - it was the same team (bar Andre Garcia coming in for Jeriel Dorsett) as it was at Wycombe Wanderers, but we couldn’t get a foothold in midfield at all, couldn’t get the ball moving, couldn’t put the game on them and couldn’t find anyway to make meaningful attacks. Rudderless.

Even the clappers weren’t clapping (surely they must cost a fair bit to make, surely?) and my daughter was losing what little interest she had. Even my son wasn’t feeling it and he’s normally up for the cup.

The whole stadium felt out of place, like everyone had just turned up there by accident. It didn’t feel right at all, like that person in your street who doesn’t put up lights for Christmas (and not because they don’t celebrate it, but because they are horrid).

At 3-0, the sweets and patience had run out. People emptied from their seats like clouds spilling rain. To be fair, it was an emphatic mass exodus once Ashley Fletcher had stuck the nail into the coffin to cap a fine performance from Steve Bruce’s men.

There will be plenty of reaction and over-reaction to this one. I was irritated by the manner of the defeat: three avoidable goals that stemmed from complacency from our team. Let’s be clear though, only one team was worthy of winning the game and win they did.

For us, it’s back to the Christmas goose to see if we can pick up any more points before Santa comes to town. It’s also down to me to convince my daughter to come back. Still, if she doesn’t, it will save me a few quid in bribes.

Thank you for reading as always and take care.

Until next time.