Our Day at Elland Road

Glynis and Simon Wright travelled to Leeds last Saturday and joined the Hereford United faithfull at Elland Road.

Here's a flavour of their day.

Having got there by one pm, going by the profusion of vendors eager to flog flags, badges, scarves and other memorabilia to the Leeds faithful, of which there were many, even with two hours, still, to kick-off, there was going to be quite a crowd. And there was: 25,000 souls worshipped at the Shrine Of Revie, the seventh-highest in both the ‘normal League’ and its ‘Greed’ counterpart. A gate exceeding that of most Championship clubs, and two in ours, in fact.

Premiership-standard attendance for what was, not so many seasons ago, a Premiership club – and one regularly participating in European knock-out tournaments, too. Going by yesterday’s scenes alone, the casual observer would never have twigged the fact that this was a fixture scheduled to take place in the lower reaches of English football. Visitors from clubs of much humbler origins must emerge from their coaches wondering just what the hell they’ve landed into.

The most incongruous sight? That of scores of Leeds followers draped in variants of the word ‘relaxed’ around the sun-drenched plinth of the Billy Bremner statue that adorns the open space to the side of the away turnstiles; such was their profusion, it seemed to me as though the club’s most famous tackling terror was emerging, arms raised aloft, in celebration of having only forced his way through the lot of them after a long, hard struggle!

As we did for Hereford’s epic FA Cup replay last season, we decided to make our way to the McDonalds branch located opposite the ground, just like the one that enjoys a similarly-lucrative spot back on Planet Albion. As we sat down to enjoy some much-needed refreshment, a cold Coke (large) for this column, and a coffee (strong!) for His Nibs, I reflected long and hard upon the names and faces of the players that figured so large in my youthful Baggies-watching activities, and now adorned the walls of the fast-food emporium.

These, among many others, were morally-dodgy gaffer Revie, the now-deceased Bremner (although he was a vindictive little ratbag as a player, I wouldn’t wish motor neurone disease upon my worst enemy), Jack Charlton (who dolefully rejoiced in the Brummie soubriquet ‘Rubber-neck’ during his playing days: never seemed to get much change out of The King, though), Lorimer, the Gray combo, Albion gaffer-to-be Johnny Giles, and eternally-erroneous custodian Gary Sprake (had he not stuffed up in spectacular fashion during his club’s 1968 FA Cup semi with Everton, it would have surely been Leeds opposing us at Wembley, not Everton).

A cast-iron generator of memories, both good and bad, for me – and looking at the vista of comparatively youthful faces now occupying most tables, I wondered how many of those present had been around during the most famous – and arguably controversial – of United’s real glory years. The Fart would have loved it, if only for the mental nostalgia-fest it generated.

Back to the old jalopy, then, and a quick perusal of the Guardian before we entered the bearpit calling itself a football ground. As my other half scanned the sports section, I joined with him in wholehearted depreciation of the declining standard of their journalism, as per their somewhat ambitious listing of Ish Miller to not only start in yesterday’s Riverside encounter, but sit it out on the sidelines as well!

One quick thought: you don’t suppose this constitutes definitive proof of what the physicists have been telling us for yonks, that subatomic particles can actually appear in more than one spot at the same time (to all intents and purposes, the paradox of Schrodinger’s Cat, et. al)? For conformation, perhaps we should take the lad to that nice new atom-smasher they’ve just opened in Switzerland, launch him into a high-speed circumnavigation of its tunnel, and see what subatomic exotica they can detect at the end. Given the number of glaring misses he’s clocked up this season, yesterday’s inclusive, that might just be the answer to everyone’s prayer, what?

Come 2.30, we called a halt upon this most civilised way of spending one’s pre-match time, and took the short walk to the away turnstiles that so eagerly awaited our pleasure, instead. And, while we’re on the subject of ‘pleasure’, what an unaccustomed delight it was to encounter stewards that actually treated punters like human beings? No sooner had they spotted the existence of my walking-aid, they then took it in turns to make solicitous enquiries about my ability to negotiate their stairs.

It so happens that Elland Road is not the worst in that respect by any means, so I didn’t need their help at all, but it was so nice – not to mention unusual - to have been asked in the first place. Not so good was the subsequent behaviour of their brethren supervising the seats and aisles within: for reasons as yet unfathomable by either Man or Baggie, they seemed to have an unhealthy fixation upon insisting that away supporters remained seated, no matter what.

That I would have understood perfectly, had the stand been full to the gunnels – but it wasn’t. Hereford, not being ‘fashionable’, only brought around 750 with them, which left that away enclosure around half-full, at a rough guess. Even a shortarse like me found little need to – er – ‘rise to the occasion’ whenever the action shifted to the goalmouth in front. What made it even worse was their involvement of the plods, at the precise time the adjacent home end had ALL of their number stood on their own two feet! So much for consistency, then.

Needless to say, both Hitler and attendant Gestapo were roundly mocked by the Bull-loving travellers present, their charges then giving forth enthusiastic chants of: “W**kers! W**kers!….” and to the point where I greatly feared for the freedom of one bovine traveller we both knew well, the diminutive, yet VERY vocal Chris Jones.

He’s that most unusual of creatures, one who actively supports more than one club, in this case, The Bulls AND Leeds. In a vastly more prejudiced and misunderstood age for mental health, he would have been called ‘schizophrenic’. The problem was that Chris, having experienced both sides of the Elland Road coin, wasn’t afraid to tell officialdom that theirs was a stance riddled with double-standards throughout, hence my anxiety as the plods moved purposefully in his direction. Just as well Chris suddenly realised precisely how close he was skating to thin ice, and ceased and desisted forthwith.

As for the game, because it’s not strictly Baggies I’m banging on about, I’ll say only this. Hereford, having a gaffer and coaching staff sharing much the same footballing philosophy as Mogga And Co, tried to play, but canny Leeds wouldn’t let ‘em. That they managed to survive with their net pristine for as long as they did is largely down to the exploits of their keeper, one Darren Randolph, whose spectacular gymnastics ‘tween both posts (he saved an incredible 18 shots, according to Statto, aka hubby) would have done Gordon Banks credit, even. Or, much nearer to home, our very own Scott Carson.

It wasn’t for nothing that the Bulls faithful sang “Randolph Is Superman’, to the point of exhaustion, almost. In the end, it took a 73rd minute goal to do the trick; cruel luck for the lad, having weathered (and successfully countered) three near-cert goalbound Leeds efforts on the bounce, only to be cruelly beaten by a somewhat fortuitous rebound from the third.

And even then, the Bulls might have snatched a (fully-deserved, if only for the sheer hard work they’d put into the task) last-gasp point, when the lad Ashikodi, on an almost one-on-one with the Leeds custodian, somehow managed to screw his effort a scant yard wide of the post. A still, small voice tells me he might yet find a like-minded companion in our very own Mister Miller!

The Bulls’ support? Although much diminished in numbers, albeit by our own somewhat exacting standards, its sheer quality would have done a revivalist meeting proud. Kicking off with that old classic: “You’re Not Famous Any More….” (how I remember that old chestnut, back in 1991-2!), they then warmed to their task by way of reminding the nearby home crowd to “Stand Up If You Love The Whites…” Confusing, that, given the indisputable fact that Leeds’ home strip IS – erm – white! Considering the sheer number of times they gave vent to that one during the game, I can only assume they were being ironic, as a counter to the vastly more famous Leeds anthem, “Marching All Together”.

The Bulls’ response? “You’ve Only Got One Song!” Even when the home side did make a successful, if perilously late, penetration of the Bulls’ goal-line, their response to the cries of unalloyed joy coming from the adjacent faithful came in the somewhat cheeky form of: “You Only Sing When You’re Winning….” Well, a cat can look at a king, can’t it? As for their constant reaffirmation of that age-old battle cry: “Hereford ‘Till I Die” – there was one fundamental difference: they really meant it.

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