Far
have I travelled, much have I seen:
The Origins of the Mission
03/01/03 | Part One by Mark Ingram
To me,
away games are a lot more than just watching football. I consider
it as more of an excuse for a day out. This has always been the
case since my first away game. Yes, it was feasible to leave
school at the traditional 3pm to get to the City Ground in time
for the coach departure, but where was the fun in that? We wanted
to go to McDonalds.
Leaving school at lunchtime we thought would be a doddle to blag,
however our head of year (evil, fun-spoiling woman) became
increasingly suspicious of the ever more creative excuse notes
she was receiving. Apparently an afternoon off school for a great
aunty’s wedding anniversary party has to be booked at least
a week in advance with a holiday form, umm interesting.
We were soon rumbled and forced to opt for plan B - leg it at
last break and plead to her better nature (not that she had
one...) the next morning. With hindsight our plan was never going
to work: eight people disappearing from a class, whose afternoon
programme coincidentally featured French, was always going to be
sussed out. However, from then on the mission was in full swing.
Commandeering the back seat of the bus, muchus stupidity ensued
and although we lost 3-1 that day (Man United in the Worthington
Cup; stoney scored a pearler; they don’t sell Coca Cola
there, only 'Champs Cola' - swap the first A for a U for a more
appropriate title) we went home happy chappies. The next morning
at school we were not so happy mind. With Miss Permanent-PMT
waving her favourite rusty scissors at us, we only narrowly
avoided castration!
After that evening I was hooked and went to as many away games
that season as my paper round money would permit. Next came
Everton (we won 1-0 I think, f*** knows how; never, ever, have a
'Scouser Pie') which sticks in my memory for two reasons: playing
a question of sport on the bus, and the Carlton Palmer song. It
was a laugh, I doubt we would have been that bothered had our
winless run extended further.
Next came Derby, which although I partly remember for football
reasons - that Carbonari toe-poke - it will live on in my memory
as the most hungover I have ever been at a game! The night before
we had, in true 15-year-old stylee, been drinking cider down the
local donkey sanctuary (don’t ask) and to say we were
paralytic would be somewhat of an understatement. It was kind of
in celebration that we had got Derby tickets that morning,
believing them to be sold out, so we had one or two extra... doh!
The next day started as all Saturdays did - my paper round.
Wobbling down the road on my bike to the shop I had the bright
idea that caffeine would wake me up so I brought a two litre
bottle of coke and drank the lot in approximately 10 minutes. I
don’t think I have ever felt so ill in my entire life. The
combination of alcohol and caffeine made me want to be sick and,
alarmingly at the time, unable to stop shacking. Despite this,
the mission continued and we braved the hostile waste ground that
is Derby.
After the game all I remember is running. The marvolous idea to
release both the home and away fans at the same time just
typified the intelligence of the locals perfectly, ‘cos a
line of 20 or so policemen is going to keep the two factions
parted, nice one!
Well we legged it, which did little for the caffeine/alcohol mix
sloshing around in my stomach, and made it to the bus to the
train station. Derby fans by now had massed ranks either side of
the route to the station and around the station itself and it
came as little surprise that a brick came through one of our
windows. My mate offered an interesting take on it: "Well
Ingram, at least you can be sick out of there." Cheers to
Matt who, despite being hungover badly himself, took great
delight in watching me suffer. Especially,
he took great delight in me effectively having to chew on my
scarf on the train home to prevent me being sick.
I think it was on this day that the term 'mission' was born to
this context. We had survived against all odds: the certain death
of the post-match car park, the slight ailment I was suffering
from, and a half-time pie, all things that could of prevented a
safe return. But we were victorious, we did it.
That season I also went to Villa Park and to this day when ever I
hear "Aston Villa" (I think some people played
football, couldn’t really see; to be able to accommodate
your legs you kinda have to sit with your legs spread wide, like
a prostitute if you will) I think 'Chicken Balti Pie'.
Again non-football, just the first day I sampled the genius that
is putting curry into pies - best of both worlds. It's like pint
glasses with naked ladies on, or as old people put it, killing
two birds with one stone.
Then came the defining moment of the season - Blackburn away
(singing 'The Great Escape'; Chettle made a muppet of himself
after he got sent off for tripping over his own shoe laces; we
got to watch They Think It’s All Over christmas
special on the bus). Anyone who went to this game I doubt will
ever forget it. We actually won, which effectively relegated
Blackburn, and we all danced like twats.
Me and Beardsley were some of the first ones down the front,
shirts off, and proceeded to jump around to what was effectively
the first line of 'The Great Escape' repeated for well over half
an hour. I always go to games in the hope of another such
atmosphere (to date only two have come close: Grimsby,
"singing the blues", and Coventry, "we’ve
only got nine men") although it is a very rare event.
This is what cemented The Mission as a thing of greatness and
left me eagerly awaiting the next season, where we would return
as champions (well, erm, nearly) and Missions would be plenty.
And they were, it was like a movement (literally). Numbers grew,
stupidity grew, and the ideal of the mission spread. We’ve
never failed one yet, and you should see the car we used, as
featured in Part Two of this bollocks trilogy - the Golden Age of
Missions.
Please email me and tell me how much you hate this crap: trentendlad@hotmail.com. Alternatively if you found this an
enjoyably read, please contact: dysfunctionalbrainunit@qmc.hos.uk