Scunthorpe United v Chesterfield

Saturday, November 13, 2004

English FA Cup

Scunthorpe United :
Musselwhite, Byrne, Crosby, Butler, Ridley, Sparrow (Taylor 68), Kell, Baraclough, Beagrie (Rankine 84), Torpey (Sharp 84), Hayes
Subs not used:
Evans, Jackson

Chesterfield :
Muggleton, Bailey, Blatherwick, Evatt, Nicholson, Allott, Niven, Hudson (Davies 89), Smith (DeBolla 72), Stallard (N'Toya 61), Folan
Subs not used:
O'Hare, Richmond

SULSESC REPORT

by Chris Vaughan at Glanford Park

EH oop, it's the Cuhp! First round day again and, in carefully planned waves, SULSESC set off. And off. And off. (And later, in Darren's case, off).

In another meticulously organised daytime raid, seven of SULSESC's finest approached Scunny on four different trains; six of us from the South with Darren creating a diversion from the West. More pressing international business in Manchester, I understand.

Mal and I were just getting stuck into the papers (I'd made Mal use his Times voucher earlier than he'd intended because the Guardian was poncily full of rugby and had completely omitted the FA Cup fixtures) when the 'phone vibrated. It doesn't ring any more; it gave up that embarrassing habit many moons ago. It's Mrs. Holland on the train in front: "Where are you?" "On a train." "Which one?" "A big blue one with wheels." "No, stupid! Are you near Peterborough?" "Er...Mal, are we near Peterborough...?" "..........." "Only our train's broken down. What carriage are you on?".

Thus in a perfectly executed manoeuvre, two–thirds of the London detachment were to arrive, unexpectedly, in Scunny together. And at Donny the earlier connection arrived a few minutes late which meant we were knocking on the door of the Lawyer at five to eleven.

(I feel duty bound at this stage to make the point that, with four of us together on the train, all newspaper–related activities were curtailed and the usual interlektewal test of SULSESC Black Maria got under way. I make the point because, very unusually, I won. Eat my clubs you lot!)

Back to the Lawyer where, with Mrs. H. having baled out at the station, the three of us were left to commence a pre–match right to left pump traverse. Sadly I was unable to complete this classic pre–match ritual due to Andy Kerr's rotten timing, but, as he was offering a lift to the ground I suppose I shouldn't be churlish.

During our sojourn at the lawyer, we were fortunate enough to witness the remarkable North London derby on TV, which Arsenal won 5–4. There was actually a Spurs fan in the pub, who, when quizzed on his allegiance offered the excuse: "I'm from Broughton."

Well, all I can say is that living in Broughton didn't affect me like that. Strange.

Down to Glanford Park then with Neil Wright and the Messrs. Kerr (pere et fils), where, after the annual raiding of the club shop (a new mug now graces the Vaughan coffee table and I now own two natty pairs of Scunthorpe United socks. Bliss!) it was time for another pint in the Iron Bar.

And so to the football. So often in the past, this is the bit I've tended to try to forget, erase from the memory, consign to the dustbin of the mind; it so often has a nasty habit of ruining an otherwise great day out. But not so often this season, I understand, and definitely not today.

A masterful performance against a side in the higher reaches of er– League One/the No Nonsense Third Division who were given very little room for opportunity in front of goal. Hayes, in the first–half, and Baraclough, in the second, put away well taken goals set up by Torpey and Taylor respectively.

The only two Chesterfield chances saw Musselwhite make a sharp save on his line, and a shot blasted high over the bar. A good, clean game where there was never the sudden urge to look up the referee's name.

Afterwards some Chesterfield fans we spoke to blamed their team's relatively quiet display on missing loan players, but whatever the case, the Iron defence handled most of what the Spireites could throw at them with apparent ease. And we left the ground uplifted, singing Allellujah and rejoicing. Probably.

Anyway, back to afterwards. Upon our return to the Lawyer (thanks once again to Andy Kerr), we were surprised, nay, shocked and dismayed to come face to face with a sea of plod. Well, more a large puddle of plod I suppose, but relatively speaking...

Fearing the worst (use your imagination. I don't know what the worst could have been), we approached a plod–drop who informed us of the tense stand–off which was developing... - "I wouldn't go in there. It's full of Chesterfield. We're going to be escorting them back to the station in 10 minutes."

What were we to do? The answer came surprisingly, instinctively quickly. We went in, welcomed by a couple of Chesterfield fans with the words: "You lads were in here before the game. Come in!" And indeed the Honest Lawyer was full of Chesterfield; wall–to wall (not difficult in such a narrow pub), rowdily and with malice aforethought supping beer!

Mr. Wright was so stunned by the enormity of it all that he quite forgot himself and bought us each a pint too, which we proceeded to consume in the presence of Public Enemies nos. 1–38–ish, as perceived by Humberside Police.

Mr. Skeels had not long rejoined us when a top plod came through the door to announce that all Chesterfield fans were to get on the double decker bus parked outside which would then take them to the railway station. The railway station which is three minutes walk away, with 20 minutes to the next train. The bus had originally been used to transport said Chesterfield fans from the ground to the station, but no–one had thought to hold the train, which pootled off into the gloom without them. Reasonably enough, the Spireite detachment, with the prospect of a 45 minute wait on Scunny station had, as a man, headed for the Honest Lawyer.

And so we were to be privileged to witness a finer display of community policing than has been seen in these 'ere parts for many a moon. For some reason, the majority of the Chesterfield boys had decided not to take up kind plod's offer of a free trip to a cold station platform.

With top plod announcing "We're clearing this pub" and "Al, stop serving for two minutes please", in marched the first Battalion Humberside's Own Special Sub–riot Police complete with helmets, visors and truncheons to swamp the Lawyer and quell this blatant act of civil disobedience.

Without a nod to ceremony, all (identified) Spireites were ushered/marched/forced out of the pub and onto the waiting bus. A few managed to avoid the clearance by telling their oppressors that they were from Birmingham, which caused enough confusion to do the trick. One poor plod even tried to evict the few Scunthorpe fans (that'd be me, Neil Wright and Andy Skeels) until Neil explained the finer points of team colours. I suspect that he didn't think (or it had never been explained to him) that opposing fans could enjoy a few drinks together in peaceful conversation.

The last dozen or so to leave were the Burberry brigade, who appear to have been hiding in the corridor at the far end of the pub, so perhaps plod had got something right - or am I guilty of tarring all the little darlings with the same brush? But they were all very polite, and some even shook hands as they passed us.

Following the exodus, there was much shaking of heads, even amongst the regulars. Al, apparently had had his licence threatened if he didn't turn off the big screen during the ridiculously heavy–handed operation - Operation Nut and Sledgehammer.

The consensus was that no–one could recall witnessing anything similar.

The only hint of trouble or souring of an otherwise pleasant atmosphere was caused by the police action. Result: Own Goal for Plod.

We finished our pints in discussion with the remaining Chesterfield fans before a relatively uneventful trip back to London in the presence of some hairy Shaymen (acquaintances of Mrs. H., I believe) and a Cambridge supporter who sounded like he'd just fallen off a haystack as well as being a couple of seats short of a full house. I, being tired and slightly inebriated, fell asleep for much of the journey, dreaming of Torpey flicks and Hayes goals. The so–called youngsters of the party put it down to my relative seniority. Bastards.

And so home to bed - well, not quite. In the interest of gratuitous additional boozing and in celebration of the day's magnificent victory, there was still time to find a new pub for afters - The Ship in the angle of Kingsway and Holborn. Here we were accosted by an Irishwoman, fully eight sheets to the wind following Ireland's victory over the South Africans at Chase The Egg. Quite taken with the claret of our "jerseys", she loved our English accents. She obviously had a busy day ahead of her on the Sunday.

Fortunately her friend managed to pour her out of the pub and we were able to get on with continuing to drink, after sidestepping the bloke from Lincoln at the bar.

And that's about it. Somewhere in the middle there was a football match which did justice to the day, but that appears to have been the trend all season. Which is why it's officially the Best Start to a Season for Years as confirmed by Kerr–ie's dad, who in his own words, has seen a fair few games.