Despite the drunken haze and Low Country malaise of Saturday, the best was yet to come. It arrived at 8.15 the following morning in the form of our obese bus driver, as he turned up, showered, shitted, and ready to navigate us slowly back to London. A quick stop at the hotel before heading to Wembley, the beautiful new jewel in the English crown. (We'll get to that later)
We boarded his tiny van and immediately discharged him of the responsibility of map-reading, because we had the overwhelming feeling that reading a colouring book might have proved too difficult. Bigus knew the roads from his home to the capital very well, and despite every effort by our driver to cock it up, we made the trip in record time.
And then, to Wembley, and what a sight it is. For a country so utterly hopeless with architecture, where hastily built housing estates dominate, the imposing sight of the new Wembley on the hill and its brilliant, cantilevered arch thing that serves no real function other than aesthetic (so forward-thinking, I know), is breathtaking. You soon forget what a pain in the arse it is to get there, what with heavy delays and overcrowding on the Tube line out to the stadium, and once we were liberated from our fart-stale van, a good mile out, we set about the backroads through an industrial estate to Wembley itself.
The first sight upon getting there was a large group of Man United fans, and the sight brought back nauseating memories of LFC/Man U games at Anfield. Even though the Carling Cup final opponents were Spurs, this particular rabble were singing and dancing songs about the Neville brothers and hating Scousers. It struck me as odd at the time, but in hindsight, those trollops can only focus on one team at a time, and regardless of their opposition, it always comes back to the Scouse.
It reminded me why I hate the Mancs; their missing genes and missing teeth are just the tip of the iceberg. On a proud day out, they waste their oxygen yakking about Liverpool. Granted, since then, our lads have spanked them in their own backyard, so maybe their songs come from a place of insecurity.
But I digress. This is about Tottenham, and their proud day out at Wembley!
We passed their encampment, a squalid little pub/bar with two floors and a front that made it look like a cross between a B&B and a halfway home. With police on horseback all over the place, the best we could hear were their Yid chants as they drank and drank at the wrong end of the stadium.
Moving around the front, we finally let RZM in on the secret: we were sitting in the Spurs Friends and Family section, in seats our friend had managed to procure from Jonathan Woodgate. I'm not sure what it says about Wooders that his allocated seats were so easily given away, but it was enough to send RZM on a punching frenzy. First, the air. Next, each one of us. That's just how he shows his affection, I suppose.
We got in and immediately set about sampling the pies. The bar was raised quite high by Delia the day before; after the Chicken Balti that was superb, Wembley's mass-produced stodge department had a cracker of their own in the ominous "meat" pie. Easily the highlight of the pie samplings we enjoyed on the trip, despite probably containing enough spare parts of animals and medieval butchering to fill a thousand outraged PETA propaganda videos. Another pie in quick succession and a couple more lukewarm lagers served in plastic cups (never trust a Yid with glassware) before we took our seats.
Walking up the passageway out to the stands is my favourite part of seeing live sport. The noise is tinny and funneled into your face as you get closer to the light, before it hits you full on like a Bigus curry fart once you see the pitch. It was gorgeous, as you'd expect; lush, pristine, well-groomed, and ready for the 120+ minutes of football that was about to take place.
The section of seating was right next to the media section where, in their little gated enclosure, the journalists and columnists would sit and watch, unimpressed, while their assistants frantically typed their reports for them and watched the replay monitors (we'd frequently get up and crane our necks to watch replays, something the giant screens at either end of the stadium didn't do too often). It's also the place where the pundits would horrendously misgrade the players for their performances, giving Jermaine Jenas sevens and eights where half that would have been more appropriate.
Back to the pre-game; it appeared that the Spurs fans won the early merchandise game, as the Yids were decked out with big blue-and-white Spurs flags while the Mancs weren't to be trusted with such potential weaponry. It wouldn't take much to snap the wooden dowel in half and start spearing hapless North Londoners, and so, they were merch-free (or maybe they couldn't afford it?). As the teams came out, the stadium was packed to capacity, with the Yids going through the chants (including, bafflingly, "Super Pavlyuchenko" ad nauseam), flags raised high and waved as one would expect.
The ad wizards at Carling had young ladies prancing across the pitch with giant Carling balloons, attached to which were small banners for each of the players starting the game. Each player had their own balloon, their own little banner thing, and their own disinterested, over-primped teenage girl doing the walk. It was as if the two giant Carling balloons, the center-circle Carling banner, and the pitch-side Carling hoardings wasn't enough. With every big sporting event, the corporation's gotta represent!
And so, to the game itself. 'Arry was the first manager to leave his dugout recliner in order to gesture wildly at his lads, while Fergie sat back like you'd expect him to, comfortable in his old age and safe in the knowledge that his team, at half-strength for the final, didn't need much prompting.
Surprisingly, it was a decent 0-0. United had the lion's share of the scoring chances, mostly from broken play and wild shots from distance, while Spurs had only two real bright spots: Luka Modric and Aaron Lennon. Jenas was a depressing specter in midfield, doing nothing to halt United's advances. Lennon showed pace and menace down the right-wing, giving the English a glimmer of hope in the "who will replace Becks on the right?" stakes, although it didn't matter how hard he tried, for Super Pavlyuchenko and Darren Bent were fucking hopeless. Reduced to cantering in pursuit of long-balls from the back four, Pavs' most significant contribution was a free-kick from 25 yards that nearly broke the big screen high above goal.
King and Woodgate were more than equipped to deal with Danny Welbeck, and while Assou-Ekotto gave Ronaldo miles of space to collect possession on the right, he always managed to do enough on his heels to disrupt the stepovers.
For United, their youngsters showed why they're not quite there yet, while several of the fringe players were equally anonymous. Tevez ran a lot to accomplish little; Nani was average, as was most of their midfield. Once Ferguson brought on Anderson to switch to a 4-5-1, 'Arry dutifully followed suit and any fizz in the game was quickly released. Both teams clogged the midfield and played the hopeful cross-field passing game in an attempt to get round the back.
O'Shea should have been sent off, and Ronaldo was booked for a dive-that-wasn't after BAE hacked him down at the edge of the box.
From there, it always looked like penalties. Despite late cameos from Bentley (crap) and Bale (surprisingly good on the left-wing; perhaps he should never play full-back again?), we closed with the inevitable; United, replete with slick technological advantages, won easily on penalties, including the hilariously poor effort from David Bentley. Why he moved to White Hart Lane, I'll never know.
RZM was despondent and quiet, despite several loud bursts of expletives at Bentley throughout extra-time; they were even more hilarious considering Bentley's folks were perched right behind us, muttering and sighing into their scarves. You know it's bad when even his family betray the same lack of confidence in their progeny as the 40,000 Yiddos packed around them.
Losing on penalties left him mute, and so we filtered out and battled the masses while trying to get down to Holborn so Bigus could do beers and banter with some old friends. On the tube away from Wembley, a proud, rugby-obsessed father sat opposite RZM and me, with his smug, red-headed daughter snuggled next to him. Over the course of the 30-minute ride, she near reduced our Yid to tears with her barbs, for which he had little in the way of G-rated comeback. A depressing end to a disheartening day.
Pies, penalties and David Bentley.
We closed the night with bitters, soju and Korean food before decamping to the hotel for a nightcap and a few short hours rest. It didn't matter, as we missed our flight home.
All in all, Norwichomon was a raving success, and I look forward to next year, ever hopeful that we'll squeeze in a trip to Anfield. My digestive system is grateful for 11 months of rest in the meantime.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Norwichomon. Sunday: LB
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Norwichomon. Sunday: Bigus
Well here it is. We waited for 27 years, and finally Lingering finished his first installment. This surprise came out of the blue and I was pressured with documenting the second day of our momentus weekend adventure. If you remember, Lingering, Lumberjack, the Turk, Kopper, Relegation Zone Mikey and me, Bigus, headed to blightly for a weekend of footy and self-indulgence.
The first installment of Norwichomon detailed our day (and night) in Norwich to see the mighty canaries lose to Coventry. Well, the tale continues here. We hit the road the next morning, Wembley and the Carling Cup final was our destination. Join us after the jump.
Awake but nurturing hanovers, we congregated in the dining room of the Holiday Inn, Norwich to relieve them of their suppply of bacon and Coffee. Everyone had a hangover.
Our mentally challenged bus-driver was waiting out front, well-rested I might add, and in possesion of a new cable for his GPS system. However I was now traveling with them once again and it was unnecessary.
After a quick stop to pick up scotch eggs and water we were back on the road and on the one main highway that leads to London in under 5 minutes. Our driver muttered "oh the A11, yeah now I remember" as I rolled my eyes. Had Kopper heard it, he may have exploded. In the back someone farted and an inquisition was well under way to discover who the guilty party was. Lumberjack admitted to the offence before rattling off all of the teams Norwich would meet in League One next season.
This gave the rest of us great joy; you see Lumberjack moved from England to LA when he was just 12 and although he has retained his accent to some degree and tried hard to remain English, he failed misrably at pronouncing some of the teams he was scanning in the paper. Out came Hartle-pool followed by a look at League Two to predict we would play the promotion chasing Rowsh-dale (Rochdale pro: Rotch-dale). We laughed at him for a good 10 minutes before moving on. Most of us were still 3 sheets to the wind and in hysterics the entire way to our hotel in Shoreditch.
Our rooms would not be ready until later in the afternoon but the folks at the Marriot let us sling our stuff into one room. I won the battle to use the lavvy first amid groans. Those who have ever been on a curry, pie, drinking weekend with a bunch of mates will know that what goes in, has to come out. EVERYONE needed to go, yet I was first. Get In. An opportunity to reap revenage upon two-hours of League one mockery. I opened the door and low and behold, no window. GET IN!
Ten minutes later I emerged as Lingering was living up to his name, hovering outside the door dancing the jig of discomfort. In he went, to join the odors of Basmati, Chippati, Rogan Josh, mango chutney, scotch eggs, meat pies, 14 pints of Stella and 8 shots of Tequilla. The screams could be heard in the lobby.
Back in the coach. Our driver told us he knew the way to Wembley, he was of course full of shit and just following his sat nav, which led him to a 8 mile traffic jam through north London. As soon as we could see Wembley, we had him pull over and hopped out.
Ten minutes later, there she was again, like an old friend with a new haircut welcoming you after a spell away. This was my second time to new Wembley. She is without a doubt the greatest stadium in the World. While I haven't seen them all, it is hard to believe that any of the biggies like the Maracana, have the atmosphere AND superb facilities that Wembley offers.
In fact off the pitch, the Maracana is an absolute shit hole. Anyway. I have seen whats on offer in this great country, the old AND the new but Wembley is just magnificent. A giant beauty. Inside the walk ways are spacious and the food was surprisingly good. The balti pie wasn't a patch on Delias in Norwich but it was good!
As we climbed the stairs to the wide concourse that stretches around the stadium, anti-Liverpool songs were being sung by United fans. Lingering took exception. "They are playing Spurs... fucking animals!"
We had decided to play a joke on RZM some time earlier. As a Spurs fan, he was excited to be at Wembley but dissapointed that he was sitting with Manchester United fans behind their goal. Of course this wasn't true but we had been winding him up for close to 3 months and it was a lot of fun. "Dont worry Mikey, we'll look after you", and "you'll have to keep quiet mate, if Spurs score, bite your tongue!"
Lumberjack had made some t-shirts for the event. Their content was a giant giveaway as to where our seats would be as was RZM's brief flirtation with the tickets. That was until Kopper spotted they said 'Spurs' on them. He was still none the wiser, holding the ticket in a t-shirt that depicted what appeared to be Ronaldo giving Rooney a blow-job. A popular design in the United section for sure!
We posed for pictures in our t-shirts as Manc fans AND Spurs fans failed to get the joke. We did and that's all that matters!
As we headed round the stadium towards our section, the throngs of United fans became a sea of blue and white flags. At this point RZM nabbed a ticket and stared. He looked at the section and then burst into a scream. "You bastards". He then spent five minutes issuing hugs and pushes, jumping up and down like a child at Christmas.
Lumberjack gets great seats for Wembley, by the half-way line. But, as soon as Spurs made the final, he went about swapping those (in the Manc section) for Spurs tickets. He managed to swap them with Jonathan Woodgate's family, and so, we were in the WAG section.
Before the game the teams were announced by giant balloons and banners, positioned by handlers on the pitch in the right positions. Very impressive. Kopper reckoned that we had Gareth Bale's family in front of us. Apparently his mum leapt up and down with joy when he came on. John Bostock was also a few rows forward.
RZM was in top form, spending the entire game screaming at every decision. He tends to forget where he is or who is around him when he is watching footy and this was a joy to behold as he yelled "F*ck you ref" 18 times in a row.
The game itself was not the greatest, entertaining but not a classic by any means. Off the pitch there was a smashing encounter 5 rows behind us: a big guy had snatched a flag that was apparently being waved in his face by the guy in front. The offending banderole was owned by a little chap which is why the big chap broke the flag's stick and threw it on the floor.
Little did the big guy know, he had just taken on Vinny Jones meets a pitbull all contained in a 5ft 8 inch north Laaaandon wrapper. The little fella went mental! What ensued was a standoff of finger pointing and close talking. "Get out of my face!!" Eventually I believe the big bloke gave the little fella his own flag as mediated by a bystander and all was well. Spurs fans, nuff said!
Extra time passed and penalties were upon us. RZM watched every single one through his fingers. As an England and Norwich fan, shoot-outs bring a fear that is unrivalled. As a non-partizan bystander I quite enjoyed the cruelty of the moment.
And then there was one moment in particular: David Bentley. He can't miss can he? He's not some hoofing big lump of a defender destined to sky one in the direction of Hatton Cross tube station. No, this is a man who takes free kicks and scores 45 yard volleys against Arsenal after teeing himself up on his knee. But he did miss, in fact he tried to be a clever dick and keep the ball on the ground. The resulting shot was dragged wide and the Manc fans behind the goal roared the roar of victory.
RZM looked a beaten man. The look on his face would not have been different if I'd smacked him in the balls with a broken flag. We consoled him for a minute and declared penalties to be inhuman. A cruelty that should be reserved for detainees at Guantanamo.
Then he said it: "We weren't beaten by Man U. We weren't beaten, we held our own." He was right.
Harry had stifled the play by copying Fergie throughout the game. Change in formation? Hold on... I'll do the same. The result was an often dull second half that led us to the stalemate that required pennos to decide a winner.
But he was right. Spurs held their own and in fact deserved to win in my eyes. Their fans sang louder and their team gave it everything. But that's football. Its a cruel cruel game and somebody has to win. Jermaine Jenas showed what an over-rated player he is and Modric how under-rated HE is. What I also noticed was that football writers for national papers. Writers like Martin Samuels spend the game typing and not really watching. They were all lined up next to us. Typing away. As soon as the kicks were over, they were off. Draw your own conclusions from that!
Beers followed. Lumberjack's appauling dress sense led to him being mocked in a Wembley pub for a crime that rivals throwing a shoe at a President. As he sat on a table supping his ale, a small woman approached him and asked "Are those Chelsea socks?"
She was spot on; not only did Lumberjack have on a pair of white Chelsea half-socks, he had committed the crime of wearing them with brown loafers, a crime that she was quite offended by. He was severly scolded for his lack of dernier cri.
Mikey cheered up at Lumber's beat-down and we drank more beer.
The following day we were up nice and early and ready for the trip back to the airport. I had the clever idea of taking a taxi, an idea that everyone else thought was clever until an accident on the motor-way left us stuck in traffic, and so we missed our plane.
Lumberjack was off to Miami and the Turk...er off to Turkey. Both managed to make their departures, while myself, RZM and Lingering were informed that there was no way in hell we would be reaching our plane, which was due to lift into the sky 20 minutes later. However, we were informed that had we been holding first class tickets, we'd have been whisked from the check-in counter and rushed to the plane in minutes. Good to know! Kopper stayed at his brothers the night before and being a good little scout, was there in plenty of time. He was in the sky and we were sat in the bar.
Apparently it was all my fault and the other two didn't let me forget it. Still, the 5 hours until the next flight flew by, largely due to me spotting the Premier League stickers behind the counter at WH Smith. Visions of my childhood flashed before me. Endless hours spent filling the yearly sticker books. Time spent haggling a swap involving Terry Fenwick and the Everton silver foil badge, that I desperatley needed to finish the Toffees page. The ammount of 'swap-sies' I accumulated in my search for the elusive Crewe Alexander team sticker and the even rarer Norman Whiteside. We clubbed together our change and decided to share this youthful reminiscence with Mikey. He was hooked. We didn't have the book but we had 30 packs of stickers and decided to build a team each. The winner would be whoever has the strongest side. That was me. It was competitive until I opened my last pack to reveal a shiny foil sticker of Ronaldo and another of Cesc Fabregas. Lingering moaned and Mikey sighed.
Get In!
This was my team...3-5-2
Tim Howard
Zat Knight
Michael Dawson
Patrice Evra
Theo Walcott
Cesc Fabregas
Stilian Petrov
Anderson
Stuart Downing
Ronaldo
Eduardo
The trip back to our youth was so entertaining that upon landing I vowed to get the book and order more. Lingering and I would truly step down memory lane and fill this years Premeier League book up like children in 1986. As you read this, the book and 50 packs of stickers sits, waiting for Lingering to visit my gaff next Saturday. Waiting has been hard! Look for a post on the joys of Panini soon!
Our arrival back in NY coincided with a pretty naughty storm. Lets just say I am not prepared to dwell any further on a travel nightmare which involved a plane, a bus, a monorail, a train and a car. Steve Martin and John Candy were amatuers!
-Bigus
Ed. Note: we hope that in finally posting the remainder of our trip, the recent foul form of Norwich shall be lifted. Please, blogger gods, un-curse the Canaries!
Friday, April 3, 2009
Norwichomon. Saturday: LB
Day 1: Beers, Shots, Relegation Fights, Curry Pies and Pain
-----
The first night, I barely remember. RZM, The Turk, Lumberjack and myself loitered at some "traditional" English pub near Liverpool Street Station, lost in a blur of bitters, Fuller's London Pride, tequila and whiskey that meshed nicely with the jetlag and general confusion.
An eight-hour flight led to an hour-long tube ride, which in turn led to a 20-minute walk to our hotel, and from there, we spilled out into Holborn like Amy Winehouse, disoriented, under the influence, and most unphotogenic.
The pub was warm and packed with Aussies, which makes perfect sense if you've ever spent time in London. The capital is packed with blonde, tanned Antipodeans, tending bar, collecting pint glasses and giving false hope to those drunk financiers who'd clocked off at 5pm from their cushy Royal Bank of Scotland offices across the street to spend what little money the company had left on round after round of vodka tonics.
We laughed, joked, ridiculed everyone in sight (including ourselves) before stumbling home around midnight. A hotel bed never felt so sweet.
That morning, it was an early start to make the trip to Norwich where Bigus was waiting with family and Canaries old boys to get the day's plans started. Lumberjack had booked a mini-van to shuttle us around, and we had the misfortune in the neanderthal who would be doing the driving. I forget his name, but it certainly rhymed with "cunt"; he drove from Dover to pick us up, loaded our bags, and then told us we had a 45-minute break because he can only drive so long in one sitting according to employment rules.
And so, he scarfed down a sausage roll and a packet of crisps (impressive for 8.30am in the morning), and we collapsed in the hotel lobby, unable to get things moving.
Once he finally did put pedal to metal, he got us lost several times, taking us on a scenic tour of Greater London with a broken GPS in his van. His bright idea? To fix the GPS once we got to Norwich, although his plan failed on one basic, crucial point: HE COULDN'T GET US TO FUCKING NORWICH.
A couple of u-turns, a dodgy roadside bacon n' egg breakfast, and a wonderful detour through what appeared to be the outskirts of Ipswich -- raw sewage and despair as far as the eye could see -- and we finally arrived at the rendez-vous, an hour later than scheduled.
Bigus was waiting, anxious at the late start, but beers were distributed and suddenly, everything got a lot calmer. We chugged a few more in the hospitality lounge before wandering down to our seats.
But wait -- first, former NCFC legend Jeremy Goss dragged Bigus and Kopper up on stage for a bit of Q&A about the NY Canaries and their allegiances to the club. Exciting stuff indeed, although I hear RZM killed it the season before with his Spurs jokes.
And then, undoubtedly the highlight of the weekend for young Bigus: DELIA SMITH. Yes, the cook sought out our traveling party and posed for pictures and a couple of questions with the lads, thanking them for their support and effort to come and support the team in their hour of need. Kopper wet himself, and Bigus nearly took her eye out with his knob!
Sure, I make fun, but I've never met Rafa Benitez, and I'll certainly never meet Hicks or Gillett which, in retrospect, is probably a very good thing indeed lest I get blood on my hands amid all the punching and stabbing.
After the hubbub died down and Kopper changed his underwear, it was almost kick-off. Down the stairs and out into the brisk Norwich air and around to our seats. Before getting there, a pitstop at the concession stand for more beer, and the most divine English export since Keira Knightley: the meat pie.
God's gift to us mortals
No, it's not a euphemism for anal sex or anything, but exactly as it sounds: a flaky, crumbly pie crust containing warm meat of some indeterminate origin, some gravy, too much salt, and all in all, it's God's snack. I'd rank the scotch egg a close second, but Delia's pies were divine. Chicken balti was the Match Pie, and nary a better morsel of food would pass my lips until the following day at Wembley. (what? I'm fat. I remember these things!)
The seats beckoned, and it was mere minutes to kick-off. Norwich City v. Coventry City. The first of many six-pointers for the Canaries.
Behold, the majesty of Carrow Road!
===
Call me arrogant or sheltered, but it's some wonder that I've never experienced the grit or weekly hurt of a relegation battle. Every game on the fixture list becomes a mile marker, a microcosm of a season spent yo-yoing between good form and ineptitude, between hope and despair.
Through no minor miracle, Liverpool has shielded me from the angst like a parent covering their child's eyes when something questionable pops up on the TV, and it's safe to say that the mood around Carrow Road was something decidedly R-rated. After all, it's not every day that Coventry City come to town.
The ground was brilliant, the support strong with barely an empty seat in sight, and yet the collective experience of those 94 minutes was enough to kill off any optimism. In short, the Canaries simply didn't have it, despite several agonizingly close chances, a miraculous equalizer, and then a capitulation of the highest order that gifted the visitors a fine away win.
This lad, Leon Best, was pretty awful up front, but you have to appreciate the facemask
Whether it was deserved or not is another story; to leave the opponent's left back all alone on the right edge of the box, free with time and space to bamboozle his marker, the 6-foot-5 striker who can't jump, several times over before curling it in off the far post, was inexcusable, and pointed to the core of why Norwich are where they are.
The midfield was static and unable to gear any form of attack when in possession, and the contrast with Coventry was clear every time their Icelandic #12 picked up the ball in his own half and sprinted toward goal like a greyhound in heat chasing a potential fuck toy.
The away fans were in full song throughout, even during the second half when Norwich piled on enough pressure to get an equalizer, but woeful finishing prevented further goals.
Around us, the majority of Canaries fans were frozen in an anxious stasis, stares glued to the game, faces wrought with concern, afraid to look away yet almost certain of what was coming next.
Bigus' dad left immediately at full-time, bitterly disappointed. We all followed. 2-1 Sky Blues, and plenty of reason to panic.
(Granted, now they're looking a lot more comfortable, but shit, they were struggling back then.)
----
Upstairs, our hosts gamely tried to keep us entertained. RZM and I were repulsed by Lumberjack, who indulged in the playground game of "Fart and Move" from one end of the room to the other, carefree as Chelsea had won, Norwich, Liverpool and Spurs had all shat the bed, and he wore his smugness as long as the night would allow.
Fans and season ticket holders sat at tables watching rugby, or crowded near the bar to get as many pints in as possible before heading home to bed. We mingled with former Canaries, including Mike Milligan and Jeremy Goss, and drank in a funereal atmosphere as hospitality prepped all their obligations for the corporate sponsors.
The Norwich City Man of the Match soon emerged, defender Gary Doherty, and Goss asked him a couple of questions on-stage before bringing up that week's Special Fan, presumably sponsored by someone or something, to ask a question of his own. Now, in normal fan/athlete interactions, you expect the regular Joe Schmo to be so enthralled by his being in the company of a player/idol that he tosses him a softball question, something along the lines of "what's your favourite food?" before running away giggling like a pre-teen girl at a Hannah Montana concert.
And yet, much to my surprise, Super Fan #99 offered Doherty a tougher question than anything scribbled on Goss' cue cards! I forget the exact wording, but it was something like "You're shit and the team is shit? Thoughts?" To his credit, Doherty gave a very composed, bland response about needing to try harder and still plenty of time left, but it still stood out as a reminder of just what was going on at Carrow Road: a fucking relegation fight! There's no time for Men of the Match when you've just lost the game!
More beer followed, and then all the sponsors came up and posed with Doherty, who wore a forced smile and looked for all the money in the world that he'd rather be somewhere else. He even posed with our lot before hastily darting out to his car.
Then, it was off for curries with a slew of old Norwichians, at which point I was ambushed with that fucking David Beckham shirt. Let the record show I still hate the man, but well played to those who set everything up, even if I never, ever, ever, ever forgive any of you for doing it. For anyone concerned, that shirt now has pride of place under the bathroom sink, where I keep it between toilet cleanings.
I barely recall what happened after that thanks to all the drinks, music and questionably-dressed women around town, but in a way, it brings the first full day of Norwichomon around full circle. I began Friday night with no clue of my surroundings, and I fell asleep Saturday night in much the same state of mind.
In-between, some other stuff happened that I'm saving for later. The following morning, we'd drag our bloated corpses from the hotel and back into the mini-van, with the trip to Wembley on the horizon.
PART TWO FROM BOTH BIGUS AND LB ON MONDAY.
Norwichomon: Saturday: Bigus.
[Ed. Note: reposted as we're actually gonna finish this thing shortly!]
Well we are back from an epic weekend. We took in 2 matches and drank enough bitter to float a battle ship in. In fact, its taken me until today to recover enough to write this. My body was so bloated by beautiful meat products such as chicken balti, steak and mushroom pies and scotch eggs, that I couldn't reach the keyboard with my arms until now. But never fear, I'm back in shape and ready to detail my trip to Norwich and day out at Wembley with Lingering Bursitis, Relegation Zone Mikey, Kopper, Lumberjack and his man-slave 'The Turk'.
My liver is out of the washing machine and my memory has returned. Lets go...
Saturday 28th Feb 2009
My day started rather differently than the rest of the boys. While they nursed hang-overs from an evening that Lingering will describe in detail in his blog, yours truly had a nice relaxing evening with my folks. Followed by the sleep of a thousand sleepy sleepers. Just what the doctor ordered ahead of a day in Norwich to be followed by a mammoth evening of fun. I headed to Norwich with my dad while the others had the pleasure of being driven from London in a coach that Lumberjack had hired. What transpired on THAT journey nearly lead Kopper's brain to explode, but again, that's one for Lingering to tell as I heard it second hand.
I checked into the hotel at the greatest ground on earth at noon. The Holiday Inn Carrow road is situated between the Barclay stand and the Jarrold. It offers some lucky buggers a view of the glorious pitch as they awake from their slumbers. Not me however. My morning view was the tire shop across the street. Anyway, I digress. The lads were late, but I was already in the bar with a pint in hand by noon.
But while the boys and their 'genius' of a driver wound their way down narrow c roads to Norwich I was having pre-game beers with Ex Norwich midfielder Mike Milligan and my mate (Norwich Academy coach) John Revell.
The lads arrived and after they had bitched about the driver, we all made our way to the Gunn club whicj is housed in the Barclay stand. After a couple of beers, the NY Canary members of the crew (myself and Kopper) were asked questions (in front of the Gunn clubs audience) by Norwich legend Jeremy Goss. Kopper was asked how a yank could become a Norwich fan and I explained how the NY Canaries came to be.
Kopper and Jeremy Goss.
The mention of the great Gossy gives me the perfect excuse to share this....
and...
Get in Gossy! Now those are two truly super strikes!
After our turn on the mic, the queen of Carrow Road herself came to find us. For those of you who have never heard of Delia Smith, I will briefly explain. Delia is England's Martha Stewart but just for cooking. Best selling books and TV shows have made her a household name. A lifelong City fan, Delia and her Husband are majority shareholders of Norwich City.
Kopper tells Delia where she can get a good steak in NYC.
To say I was excited to meet the great lady is an understatement. Kopper and I presented her with an NY Canaries t-shirt, and Kopper suggested some restaurants she might enjoy in New York. Glad he spoke up, I'd probably send her to hooters.
Now those of you who DO remember Delia and read this site will no doubt remember a certain incident that was played to death by the media. A certain incident from a certain Premiership game and a half-time plea for noise. I won't be sharing that video. But for those in the dark, this was a sketch by soccer am I found amusing, based on 'that' incident. If you cant laugh at yerself then theres no hope I say!
Right, back to business, where were we? Ahh the game itself. Hmmm, well, after meeting Delia AND Captain Canary (see below). Norwich took to the field in a crucial home game with Coventry. Not a great game at all, as like much of this season we failed to take the chances we created. Jordan Hendersen gave Coventry the lead on 19 minutes when he arrived at the far stick to hit home a cross from former Norwich player David Bell. Carrow Road was nervy and quiet. I've never known it to be so well, morbid in atmosphere. Rattling chains would not have sounded out of place. It was as if we have already accepted relegation. The half-time pie hit the spot but I wasn't happy. 3,500 miles to watch Carl Cort 'not bother' to try to win headers was depressing.
Kopper with Captain Canary. That's Kopper on the right if you were wondering.
A first half corner comes to nothing.
The second half started much better. Otsemobor created a chance for Cureton, but the luckless striker missed a sitter with the goal gaping from 6 yards (and has since been dropped). Cureton is a confidence player, when he is on form he is great but when he stinks? Well, boy does he stink. The effort is always there with him but he misses open goals and simple tap ins.
The good spell continued and following a corner and a scramble in the box, Grounds hit the ball through a crowd of players and equalized on 53 mins. Carrow Road errupted and finally the crowd perked up. Soon after Norwich were denied a blatant penalty when Corts marker jumped with him and handled the ball as it looked set to arrive at the big mans head. Cort was much better in the second half, his movement was good and he challenged for the ball. One can only think that Bryan Gunn had a word in his ear over a half-time cup of tea.
On 71 minutes the game was decided and we were all dealt a kick in the nuts as we watched a super player score a super goal. But not for us. Daniel Fox turned Carl Cort 3 times from just inside the box on the right and then picked his spot with a left footed shot into the top corner. It was frustrating to see no one move to help Cort as Fox took his sweet time. What was even more frustrating was to see our captain Mark Fotheringham slowly walk back to the box casual as can be, watching this event unfold 6 yards away in front of him. With effort like that we don't stand a chance of staying up. Fotheringham was replaced soon after and stormed off down the tunnel. He hasn't played since. Nor will he again I hope! Russell and Pattison are far more committed and better players in my opinion. Fotheringham has never really wanted to be here and only signed a one year deal. Which screams of the desire needed to be made captain right? Glenn Roeder thought so. Fotheringham also talks a great game in the press. Always the first to scream a war cry in papers and the last to close someone down.
Fotheringham. Talks a good game.
Chris Coleman's Coventry looked very balanced and he is building a nice team there. Daniel Fox is superb and 19 year old Aron Gunnarsson didnt stop running all day. He is a star of the future for sure. He looked like he was going to create a chance everytime he touched the ball.
After 4 mins of stopage time the final whistle blew. The boos echoed around the ground and we all sulked, shrugged, shook heads on the way back to the Gunn club. I didnt see enough commitment and desire to stay up to be honest. Since our trip City won at QPR but lost on Saturday in a crucial 6 pointer to Blackpool.
Staying up will be a mammoth task now. But one that is only achieveable with wholesale changes to the starting line up. We have nothing to lose at this point. Our relegation rivals have hit form and some of our players look as if they have thrown in the towel. I would like to see Cody McDonald, David Carney and maybe a couple of the youth kids get a run out. Players who will be here next season and have something to fight for.
-----------------------------------------------
STOP THE BLOG EQUIVALENT TO THE PRINTING PRESS!
I scribbled that last paragraph YESTERDAY. The glass was half empty. But today? The glass is half full. Last night Norwich beat Cardiff 2-0! Cue the woo girls and the marching band. Cue the flag waving midgets. Cue the clinking of beer glasses throughout the canary kingdom. We are Alive....ALIVE.
Not only did we win but results have gone our way elsewhere in the contradictory Colaship. We now face our biggest game in 50 years this weekend as Plymouth (4 points ahead) visit Carrow Road for what could be the mother of all Norwich victories? I will pray every day from now until Saturday.
I will also evoke the magical powers of the 1973 canaries! It worked yesterday. No really! I had to leave the office and my trusty BBC Norfolk audio feed just before half-time. Armed with instant messaging buddies and the humble refresh feature on my blackberry browser, I finished the game in a frenzy of communication.
On the train I decided that maybe listening to the Wembley 73 song "The Canaries" may help me 'will' a victory. It was working, we scored. 5 times in a row, the trumpets of the cheesy football number played as I was glued to the bbc results page. Shoot, the results started to go against us. But wait..The song had stopped again and I had forgotten to start it up. Back on it went, along with the repeat button. The results started to go our way. The instant messages brought news of Derby equalizers and a goal from former Norwich loanee Martin Taylor. A Swansea winner. And then it happened...We scored again! I have vowed that this weekend, that song will be be playing continuessley as we take on Plymouth. Want to hear the magical number? Of course you do...
It's the song what done it!
Of course, the result it had nothing to do with outstanding debut perfomances from McDonald, Mooney and a blinder from Alan Gow! Incidentily, Mcdonald was working as a scaffolder on the London Underground just a few weeks ago. Gunn had decided to freshen things up with some new faces, hungry players. Players who hadn't quit yet. Mooney had never played at this level either. Both Mooney and McDonald took their goals like they had been playing at Championship level for years. No fear, just confidence. Get In!
--------------------------------------------------
I will now return you to a Saturday in Norwich.
Back in the Gunn club, man of the match Gary Doherty looked like a rabbit in the headlights as he had to answer some tough questions about City's performance and spend 30 mins shaking hands and smiling for pictures when I am sure he would have rather been banging his head against a wall somewhere else. Like a dissapointed child I asked him to keep us up, as if the man known as 'Ginger Pele' holds the keys to survival.
The lads with Gary Doherty, John Revell and Dick Mills.
After a few more beers and some tears in those beers, I had a chat with former manager Dave Stringer to see what he thought of the game and of the current situation at Carrow Road. After that I really needed a drink! It was back to the hotel for a quick change of clothes and then out for a curry.
The day and evening was all set up by my mate John Revell. The Rev is a top bloke, Norwich academy coach and a real character. He parties with the best of them and has no idea of his age, except for that he thinks he is 21. Now that's the way to be! Top man. Talking of being 21. John Jr WAS 21 on this very day. He is the tall lad on the left in the black shirt. Oh to be 21 again....
The Rev, his boys and their mates.
There were 40 of us at Spiceland in Norwich for a ruby, and I thought this was the ideal time to settle a little bit of UF business. A while back Lingering had made (and lost) a bet with The Fans Attic. Now, if you read this site a lot (or a little) you will know that Lingering Bursitis has a deep, deep hatred for David Beckham. It's completely unnatural and unexplainable. Ask "what did David do to you Lingering?" and he will reply "he lives". Bizzare and weird I know. I mean...Who could possibly hate David Beckham? It's like hating small kittens or Bruce Forsythe. Just weird. Anyway, the bet was lost and the punishment must be issued! Lingering would have to wear a Beckham shirt in a public place causing a damaging amount of embarrassment to his self esteem and his anti-Beckham rhetoric.
Well, little did Lingering know but a Beckham shirt was with me and Saturday night in Norwich, in frint of a full restaurant was the night. After a brief explanation and a round of applause, out it popped. BBC commentator, ex-Norwich player and top bloke Neil Adams presented the shirt to Lingering as he turned the color of a his favorite Liverpool Jersey. After the horror of the moment subsided, he bowed his head, slipped it on and took his medicine. Fair play to the lad, it stayed on all through dinner.
Lingering B stands at the top of the table as everyone has a good giggle at his distressed mug.
LB starts to lighten up and see the funny side.
As dinner came to a close, Neil Adam's cell phone rang, except it wasn't for him. He passed me the phone to me and said "it's Gunny for you". Gunny for me? I said? Wowzer...I'd met Gunny on a few occassions but thats one bloke who meets more people a week than the toilets at Penn station, surely he didn't remember?
He did you know, what a fantastic surprise. Bryan Gunn had called to acknowledge that we had flown 3500 miles to see us lose and to have a quick chat. He told me he was doing the best he could to keep us up and they were all working very hard to do so. How about that? This wouldn't happen at any other football club. I don't remember hearing about Rafa calling Lingering, or Relegation Zone Mikey getting a ring from 'Arry after the Cup final. Wonder if Precious Roy ever got a call from Wenger? " Hallo Roy, if youz writez one more ting about Eboue, ve are done!
Norwich Manager Bryan Gunn: I added the phone headset for this realistic 'Crimewatch' style reconstruction of the phone call.
This kind of effort is what sets Norwich City football club and it's people well above any other club. Bryan Gunn had bothered to make my night after a dissapointing result when I am sure he had plenty on his mind and better things to do. Top man.
Well. After the Curry we all hit the local night spots for beer, shots, lots of chat and more shots. And If you think I'm telling you all about that you can think again!
'Norwichomon' part two will be all about the Carling Cup final. Watch out for that shortly.
-Bigus.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Norwichomon by Bigus: Part 1.
This post is part one of four. Two for the Saturday of our trip and two for the Sunday, from TWO perspectives. Did Lingering Bursitis and I see the same games, have the same fun?
Well we are back from an epic weekend. We took in 2 matches and drank enough bitter to float a battle ship in. In fact, its taken me until today to recover enough to write this. My body was so bloated by beautiful meat products such as chicken balti, steak and mushroom pies and scotch eggs, that I couldn't reach the keyboard with my arms until now. But never fear, I'm back in shape and ready to detail my trip to Norwich and day out at Wembley with Lingering Bursitis, Relegation Zone Mikey, Kopper, Lumberjack and his man-slave 'The Turk'.
My liver is out of the washing machine and my memory has returned. Lets go...
Saturday 28th Feb 2009
My day started rather differently than the rest of the boys. While they nursed hang-overs from an evening that Lingering will describe in detail in his blog, yours truly had a nice relaxing evening with my folks. Followed by the sleep of a thousand sleepy sleepers. Just what the doctor ordered ahead of a day in Norwich to be followed by a bumper evening of fun. I headed to Norwich with my dad while the others had the pleasure of being driven from London in a coach that Lumberjack had hired. What transpired on THAT journey nearly lead Kopper's brain to explode, but again, that's one for Lingering to tell as I heard it second hand.
I checked into the hotel at the greatest ground on earth at noon. The Holiday Inn Carrow Road is situated between the Barclay stand and the Jarrold. It offers some lucky buggers a view of the glorious pitch as they awake from their slumbers. Not me however. My morning view was the tire shop across the street. Anyway, I digress. The lads were late, but I was already in the bar with a pint in hand.
But while the boys and their 'genius' of a driver wound their way down narrow c roads to Norwich from Ip..Ip..Ip..That place, I was having pre-game beers with Ex Norwich midfielder Mike Milligan and my mate (Norwich Academy coach) John Revell.
The lads finally arrived and after they had bitched about their driver, we all made our way to the Gunn club, which is housed in the Barclay stand. After a couple of beers, the NY Canary members of the crew (myself and Kopper) were asked questions (in front of the Gunn clubs audience) by Norwich legend Jeremy Goss. Kopper was asked how a yank could become a Norwich fan and I explained how the NY Canaries came to be. I'm sure we ruined lunch for many folks and for that I appologize now.
Kopper and Jeremy Goss.
The mention of the great Gossy gives me the perfect excuse to share this....
and...
Get in Gossy! Now those are two, truly super strikes!
After our turn on the mic, the queen of Carrow Road herself came to find us. For those of you who have never heard of Delia Smith, I will briefly explain. Delia is England's Martha Stewart but just for cooking. Best selling books and TV shows have made her a household name. A lifelong City fan, Delia and her husband are majority shareholders of Norwich City.
Kopper tells Delia where she can get a good steak in NYC.
To say I was excited to meet the great lady is an understatement. Kopper and I presented her with an NY Canaries t-shirt, and Kopper suggested some restaurants she might enjoy in New York. Glad he spoke up, I'd probably have sent her to Hooters.
Now those of you who DO remember Delia and read this site will no doubt remember a certain incident that was played to death by the media. A certain incident from a certain Premiership game and a half-time plea for noise. I won't be sharing that video. But for those in the dark, this was a sketch that aired on soccer am that I found amusing, based on 'that' incident.
"Canary, canary, canary". Hilarious.
Right, back to business, where were we? Ahh the game itself. Hmmm, well, after meeting Delia AND Captain Canary (see below). Norwich took to the field in a crucial home game with Coventry. Not a great game at all, as like much of this season we failed to take the chances we created. Jordan Hendersen gave Coventry the lead on 19 minutes when he arrived at the far stick to hit home a cross from former Norwich player David Bell. Carrow Road was nervy and quiet. I've never known it to be so, well, morbid in atmosphere. Rattling chains would not have sounded 'out of place'. It was as if we have already accepted relegation. The half-time pie hit the spot but I wasn't happy. 3,500 miles to watch Carl Cort 'not bother' to try to win headers was depressing.
Kopper with Captain Canary. That's Kopper on the right if you were wondering.
A first half corner comes to nothing.
The second half started much better. Otsemobor created a chance for Cureton, but the luckless striker missed a sitter with the goal gaping from 6 yards (and has since been dropped). Cureton is a confidence player, when he is on form he is great but when he stinks? Well, boy does he stink. The effort is always there with him but he misses open goals and simple tap ins.
The good spell continued and following a corner and a scramble in the box, Grounds hit the ball through a crowd of players and equalized on 53 mins. Carrow Road erupted and finally the crowd perked up. Soon after Norwich were denied a blatant penalty when Cort's marker jumped with him and handled the ball as it looked set to arrive at the big mans head. Cort was much better in the second half, his movement was good and he challenged for the ball. One can only think that Bryan Gunn had a word in his ear over a half-time cup of tea.
On 71 minutes the game was decided and we were all dealt a kick in the nuts as we watched a super player score a super goal. But not for us. Daniel Fox turned Carl Cort 3 times from just inside the box on the right and then picked his spot with a left footed shot into the top corner. It was frustrating to see no one move to help Cort as Fox took his sweet time. What was even more frustrating was to see our captain Mark Fotheringham slowly walk back to the box casual as can be, watching this event unfold 6 yards away in front of him. With effort like that we don't stand a chance of staying up. Fotheringham was replaced soon after and stormed off down the tunnel. He hasn't played since. Nor will he again I hope! Russell and Pattison are far more committed and better players in my opinion. Fotheringham has never really wanted to be here and only signed a one year deal, which screams of the desire needed to be made captain right? Glenn Roeder thought so. Fotheringham also talks a great game in the press. Always the first to scream a war cry in papers and the last to close someone down.
Fotheringham. Talks a good game.
Chris Coleman's Coventry looked very balanced and he is building a nice team there. Daniel Fox is superb and 19 year old Aron Gunnarsson didn't stop running all day. He is a star of the future for sure. He looked like he was going to create a chance every time he touched the ball.
After 4 mins of stoppage time the final whistle blew. The boos echoed around the ground and we all sulked, shrugged, shook heads on the way back to the Gunn club. I didn't see enough commitment and desire to stay up to be honest. Since our trip, City won at QPR but lost on Saturday in a crucial 6 pointer to Blackpool.
Staying up will be a mammoth task now. But one that is only achievable with wholesale changes to the starting line up. We have nothing to lose at this point. Our relegation rivals have hit form and some of our players look as if they have thrown in the towel. I would like to see Cody McDonald, David Carney and maybe a couple of the youth kids get a run out. Players who will be here next season and have something to fight for.
-----------------------------------------------
STOP THE BLOG EQUIVALENT TO THE PRINTING PRESS! (buzzer)
I scribbled that last paragraph YESTERDAY. The glass was half empty. But today? The glass is half full. Last night Norwich beat Cardiff 2-0! Cue the woo girls and the marching band. Cue the flag waving midgets. Cue the clinking of beer glasses throughout the canary kingdom. We are Alive....ALIVE I say.
Not only did we win but results have gone our way elsewhere in the contadiction that is the current Colaship. We now face what could be our biggest game in 50 years this weekend as Plymouth (4 points ahead) visit Carrow Road. I will pray every day from now until Saturday. Oh please lord, I will believe if you just let us win this one game. Ever said that as a kid?
I will also invoke the magical powers of the 1973 canaries! It worked yesterday. No really! I had to leave the office and my trusty BBC Norfolk audio feed just before half-time. Armed with a platoon of instant messaging buddies and the humble refresh feature on my blackberry browser, I finished the game in a frenzy of communication.
On the train I decided that maybe listening to the Wembley 73 song "The Canaries" may help me 'will' a victory. It was working, we scored. 5 times in a row the song played, the trumpets of the cheesy football number blasting in my ears as I stared, glued to the BBC results page. Shoot, the results started to go against us. But wait..The song had stopped again and I had forgotten to start it up. Back on it went, along with the repeat feature. The results started to go our way. The instant messages brought news of Derby equalizers and a goal from former Norwich loanee Martin Taylor at Barnsley. A Swansea winner. And then it happened...We scored again!
I have vowed that this weekend, that song will be be playing continuously as we take on Plymouth. Want to hear the magical number? The song that holds the power of survival and victory? You know you do...
It's the song what done it.
Of course, the result had nothing to do with outstanding debut performances from McDonald, Mooney and a blinder from Alan Gow! Incidentally, McDonald was working as a scaffolder on the London Underground just a few weeks ago. Gunn had decided to freshen things up with some new faces, hungry players. Players who hadn't quit yet. Like Cody McDonald, Mooney had never played at this level either. Both Mooney and McDonald took their goals like they had been playing at Championship level for years. No fear, just confidence. Get In!
--------------------------------------------------
I will now return you to a Saturday in Norwich.
Back in the Gunn club, man of the match Gary Doherty looked like a rabbit in the headlights as he had to answer some tough questions about City's performance and spend 30 mins shaking hands and smiling for pictures when I am sure he would have rather been banging his head against a wall somewhere else. Like a disappointed child I asked him to keep us up, as if the man known as 'Ginger Pele' holds the keys to 21st place.
The lads with Gary Doherty, John Revell and Dick Mills.
After a few more beers and some tears in those beers, I had a chat with former manager Dave Stringer to see what he thought of the game and of the current situation at Carrow Road. After that I really needed a drink! It was back to the hotel for a quick change of clothes and then out for a curry.
The day and evening was arranged by my mate John Revell. The Rev is a top bloke, Norwich academy coach and a real character. He parties with the best of them and has no idea of his age, except for that he thinks he is about 21. Now that's the way to be! Top man. Talking of being 21. John Jr WAS 21 on this very day. He is the tall lad on the left in the black shirt. Oh to be 21 again....
The Rev, his boys and their mates.
There were 40 of us at Spice land in Norwich for a ruby, and I thought this was the ideal time to settle a little bit of UF business. A while back Lingering had made (and lost) a bet with 'The Fans Attic'. Now, if you read this site a lot (or a little) you will know that Lingering Bursitis has a deep, deep hatred for David Beckham. It's completely unnatural and unexplainable. Ask "What did David do to you Lingering?" and he will reply "he lives". Bizarre and weird I know. I mean...Who could possibly hate David Beckham? It's like harbouring a dislike for small kittens or Bruce Forsythe. Just weird. Anyway, the bet was lost and the punishment must be issued! Lingering would have to wear a Beckham shirt in a public place causing a damaging amount of embarrassment and a hefty blow to his self esteem and his anti-Beckham rhetoric.
Well, little did Lingering know, but a Beckham shirt was with me and Saturday night in Norwich, in front of a full restaurant was the perfect time. After a brief explanation and a round of applause, out it popped. BBC commentator, ex-Norwich player and top bloke Neil Adams presented the shirt to Lingering as he turned the color of a his favorite Liverpool Jersey. After the horror of the moment subsided, he bowed his head, slipped it on and took his medicine. Fair play to the lad, it stayed on all through dinner.
Lingering B stands at the top of the table as everyone has a good giggle at his distressed mug.
LB starts to lighten up and see the funny side.
As dinner came to a close, Neil Adam's cell phone rang, except it wasn't for him. He passed the phone to me and said "it's Gunny for you". Gunny for me? I said? Wowzer...I'd met Gunny on a few occasions but that's one bloke who meets more people a week than the toilets at Penn station, surely he didn't remember?
He did you know, what a fantastic surprise. Bryan Gunn had called to acknowledge that we had flown 3500 miles to see us lose and to have a quick chat. He told me he was doing the best he could to keep us up and they were all working very hard to do so. How about that? This wouldn't happen at any other football club. I don't remember hearing about Rafa calling Lingering, or Relegation Zone Mikey getting a ring from 'Arry after the Cup final. Wonder if Precious Roy ever got a call from Wenger?
"Hallo Roy, if youz writez one more ting about Eboue, yooo ant me are done!"
Norwich Manager Bryan Gunn: I added the phone headset for this realistic 'Crime watch' style reconstruction of the phone call.
This kind of effort is what sets Norwich City football club and it's people well above any other club. Bryan Gunn had bothered to make my night after a disappointing result when I am sure he had plenty on his mind and better things to do. Top man.
Well. After the Curry we all hit the local night spots for beer, shots, lots of chat and more shots. And If you think I'm telling you all about that you can think again!
'Norwichomon' part two will be Lingering B's account of the day in Norwich and parts 3 and 4 will be all about the Carling Cup final. Watch out for those shortly.
-Bigus.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Introducing... Norwichomon
We've not mentioned it on the site yet, but Bigus and I, along with Relegation Zone Mikey (the hapless Yiddo referenced from time to time in Hirshey's old DS column) and a couple of others, are heading to England tonight for a spot of live footy.
The cumulative effect of weeks and months of desperate searching for pirated feeds has finally broken us down, and it's high time for a little trip.
And what better weekend than this one in front of us?
We won't be blogging live or anything, as that would be insane; however, we'll be putting together some reports from the road, undoubtedly having two very different impressions of the same events.
And so, Norwichomon was born, the chance for us to report on his beloved Colaship team, as well as the spectacle of New Wembley, the lop-sided nature of the fixture on paper, and the wonderful bureaucracy known as the FA in action.
Our schedule is light, but deadly:
- Norwich City v. Coventry City on Saturday, in what promises to be a must-win for those relegation-threatened Canaries
- Man United v. Spurs in the Carling Cup Final on Sunday.
We'll try and grab a few pictures along the way, including some from a scheduled night out with some of the Norwich players and coaches. We can't promise much, but you can bet I'll be trying to pull a Gerrard and get some DJ knocked out should he not play any Phil Collins.
Posts
