Thoughts from the Boss

Glynis Wright braved the cold to watch Hereford United against Aldershot and also found out why Bulls supporter and quiz-master Nick Brade missed the game.

It being Tuesday, and Hereford hosting Aldershot Town at Edgar Street that night, my other half then decided it was his bounden duty to take me to said game - something about 'helping my back pain ease off', or words to that effect. 'Tis true my lumbar vertebrae were giving me gyp something rotten that night, but I'd not ever considered a 50-mile car journey particularly therapeutic in that respect. 'Oh well, what the hell?.' thought I at first - but I have to say, I did eventually find the whole shebang quite fascinating in its own way.

How come? Well, it's not every day you see an entire Meadow End - Edgar Street's answer to The Brummie - making out like a Mexican mariachi band with the safety valve well and truly left off, is it? As much as a freezing-cold February evening would allow them, that was. Not a bad difference from the sun-drenched main squares of Tijuana and Acapulco, and not a single trumpet to be either seen or heard, either, human vocal chords and lung-power, plus a smidgen of pretty good imagination, making the final difference, but the end result pretty good, I have to say.

But that wasn't all; in the away end were, I'd say, around a hundred or so Shots followers, and their motivational technique of choice completely different. Flags in quantity, red and blue banners everywhere, and just to put the cherry on top of the icing, so to speak, the drums - especially the drums! Two 'artistes' that night, both at it like things high on crack cocaine; what with that and the colourful background, the entire scene vaguely reminiscent of some pre-war SS Stormtrooper rally gone completely out of hand. The overall effect? Lively, shall we say! Judging by the animated way Aldershot's 'percussion section' were going at it, I could only assume that at some point or other on the long homeward journey, some sympathetic coach steward would be doling out headache pills like candy to headache suffers, of whom there must have been plenty by then..

The game? Well, 'Im Indoors was mightily pleased: The Bulls' 2-1 win that evening plonked them nicely into joint second place, the Conference leaders having well and truly romped over the hills and far away ages ago. Not much good for automatic promotion purposes, is Hereford's win, sadly - only one goes up as of right, the next four down having to thrash it out between themselves via the play-offs - but much better than a poke in the eye, I suppose. Actually, it all started quite brightly for The Bulls, when Andy Williams - no, before you ask, he wasn't crooning "You're Just too Good To Be True" as he let fly from about six yards out - put them ahead around five or so minutes into the game, the second in that brace coming on the half-hour mark, a new chap called Fleetwood doing the damage this time. Well, he certainly did what it said on the tin - nominative determinism rules at Edgar Street, OK?

It would have been nice reporting everything was hunky-dory for Hereford after that, but it wasn't. Their strikers had come up with the goods, but after going two up, their entire midfield then decided to go AWOL en-masse, an act of extreme folly that left their rump somewhat exposed. Talk about giving 'swimming through a vat of black treacle' impersonations, and becoming suddenly 'deaf-mute' when finding themselves entangled in sticky situations in and around the box, which was somewhat too frequently for comfort. No surprise, then, when the visitors managed to get one back midway through the second half, and from then on in, things started to get a bit sweaty for 'Im Indoors's zoider zlurpin' cobbers, but they did emerge triumphant in the end, I'm glad to report. Oh - and talking of things all sweaty and 'orrible, a certain prominent Supporters Club chappie by the name of Nick Brade was particularly conspicuous by his absence from the ground that night. Quelle horreur, and all that jazz!

So, where was he, then? Exhaustive enquiries - well, I did ask his mum shortly before kick-off, does that count? - rapidly revealed him to be suffering from some sort of horrible shivery sweaty-awfuls, and not a fit sight for neither man nor beast to contemplate at length, apparently, a distinctly-lamentable state of affairs that quickly led me to speculate out loud as to whether or not the lad had contracted bird flu, and if that was indeed the case, when could I conveniently call round to his place to do a spot of 'culling'? Mind you, illness seemed to be particularly in vogue that evening, also missing from roll-call was The Noise's Herefordian alter ego, 'Talking Bill'. He's also a bit under the weather, so I'm told. What the hell do they do for recreation down there, I wonder - culture viruses purely for fun?

---